Playing Connect-the-Dots with Birds In The Sky

We pile in and string birds on fishing wire. Bead by beak, feathered constellations. A teapot, I say. A man pointing. Hmm. I don’t know, keep going. Your canine teeth, that you’re leaving me in your will, stacked to make a star. Four-pointed, with soft enamel lacquer. A 737 with the door ripped off. See, velvet blue is stabbing into the cabin, and those points are people trying—  

No, he says, long no.               No, that’s the steward with your ginger ale. They have a union, you know. I think they're in yours.   Huh, cool. Do you think, by their thousandth flight, they still look out the window and wonder how blue? Like, wanting to touch the great wet fleece, pull wistful fibers in their teeth, cut-crystal dew over dinner? Or are they just billboards on the commute?             Shoehorning advertisements at that height, huh.

Hmm.          No wait, that’s your cat! The face from his last life. Oh, I see him now, okay. How about. A mall fountain, stacked with pennies. Immaculate, but all from the nineties. Polished gems. Your face, broken with laughter like next week. Hmm. I don’t see it.    Show me?