my bird is ded

my studio prison. i step around lightly. i don't make anything here, cluster objects, time.  i wonder about all my dispossessed objects and why these. again, i see patterns, but then dissolve into dailiness and bludgeoning the thug below with sound, much less bone rattling with my new bamboo. you see that picture on the window frame? that was, or is, i, no, was, my girl christine and my baby nephew feeding her like a bird. so long ago it seems fresh and the color changing with further exposure. she has a whole nuther life and we have no present. her presence is this photo and the nebulae conjured, her time and light. dead thing, preterite life, stumped feelings, lingering and talking amongst themselves, almost.