high cardinality

May I ask what happened here?

Beneath the watchful eyes of birds.

Not named.

Just, birds.

At least, after you mistook robins for orioles and refused to be corrected.

The city grew subtropical around you, wild and spiny.

Your teeth were hungry to become a machete, a mouth to hack your way out.

Roots arose in a crescendo, tangled weaves, human hair.

You left them out where I could see them, dared me to follow the thread.

The starling coos every morning; I wonder where she sleeps.

But I don’t think about the way the sunlight hit you.

It’s the way the flowers talk.