Sparrows

Lately I've had thoughts of suicide that
appear in fluttery little bursts,
like these sparrows' wings.

On Saturday, at sixteen minutes past midnight, I realised I was experiencing
one of the two worst moments of my life.
A dance club, surrounded by
alcohol, everyone engaged in foreplay,
apart from me.
From the dark,
I glowered at them;
and the last two months sank to their nadir.

The thought's sibling,
the first worst moment,
is in Australia, many years ago.
I was in a bed in a barn on a trip I had fallen into,
as far as physically possible from anything I ever knew.
A party was going on in the larger building.
Me,
wrapped in blankets,
feeling deathly.
I remember the stars,
their cold, indifferent clarity;
the clarity of my realisation
that this was the worst it had ever been.
One silvery point among
countless others;
the cold night that might cut.

There are times, especially recently, when I'm glad, one day, it ends.

I like that woman because she's feeding the sparrows.

These sparrows. 

By Jonathan Dalton

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