It Wouldn't Be Make Believe

Bluebirds nest in dead trees, if eggs bloom the moon. An architect puts an egg in a cardboard tube to prove the sky always follows her home, and a bluebird sits on an egg though it is not his, though he sings in tune with its drab mother. And an egg is a poem shoved in the pocket of the architect, opened up like a race across America, wherever that is. And a poem is spit from the lips of a 10 yr-old girl who said no too soon, or slips out of the glove of a 33 yr-old woman who moves as if she is planning to fake her own death, or gets stuck in the teeth of a 52 yr-old man searching faces of strangers at the mall for the eyes of his son. And a poem says, if you fall, you will. The architect places the moon in her pocket, calls home when she can.