Roosts
By Christian Ward
Everything roosts
in something,
the nesting rain
tells me. Swans
stitch new habitats
out of the river
and reeds, the moon
moves in a sack
of sky. Conversations
huddle in the colour
coded nerves of a pay
phone. My baby son
rests his head against
my chest, the sound
of a bird that has travelled
far echoing in his breathing,
followed by rustling,
as if building shelter.
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