404 IS NO MISTAKE.
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He held the dead bird in his hands.
He had been watching when it clawed his finger
threw up its wings, slowly and stiffly.
He saw its eyes lose colour
He lifted the now limp neck,
between two soft fingers
and blew light air over its face
The bird flew back into his light air sigh
Into his wishes and into his dreams
Into his eyes and into his late night life
That night he woke up, and the dead bird was there
He went back to sleep to lonely wet mouth cat noises
He dreamt of the dead taste of the bird and the cat
In his dreams the wings were undamaged
And he dreamt of flying.