In the Nests of the Last Yeere There Are No Birds of This Yeere

Strange we can’t say what we are
When we are all that says things.
We need you—not to be, no,
And not to mean, but to live.
You live and it hurts. We don’t,
But since we’re the clay hurt shaped,
What you long for haunts us, too,

And since we’re what’s left of you
For the next you, we haunt, too.
We change. You change us. You scream
Us at us, lose us, drop us,
Dig us back up, breathe your lives
In us, match us up to us
You know, new eggs for the nest.