Birds

Three birds high in the air,
my lips tremble just for a bit.

One is for Amy,
one beside it for Suzanne,

the other that is with them,

though a little apart

must be for Arty, who was not stabbed.

One lonely tear leaks and slides down my cheek,
chest trembling under my shirt.
My head wants to swim in spirals of madness

because I don't know
what kind of birds

they are  .  .  .

All three lie dead,

while three birds fly high in the air.