January 6, 2013

I got used to, tag-netting the fury of the titmouse, sometimes...

photo by Jeff Nadler ©

these are the predicates of my exasperation

on a winged command
fuzzy recollections swindle
swaddle long night fertility
for bright futures
tilling into what
I see of myself
listening, tasting
the held notes
bouquet-latching, onto
personal information
overloading what I hold
to carve into
all of my memory

at the bridge between
every gate of persuasion
and seeing yourself
another mirror is
leading you back
painting black to silver
reflecting caught light
you fight yourself
from every side
you keep purposed
to the dark

the home defense line
being tied to the birds
stays inside morning cries
the picked clean eyes
are Winter’s
survival modes
tufted belly down
nesting is easy
when its cold
and all you have
is the waiting


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