 |
photo
by Aunt Tina
© found
on Aunt Tina’s Yard via Blogger
|
up
here
swooping
pitch and tuck
crows
begin a chow line day time
roof
top pinning stopped
to
a precipice hardly missed
a
squirrel, flattened the day before
on
the street, pockets shadows
wades
the high climb of the Sun
as
March waves goodbye
frost
burned and kept somewhat fresh
each
crow tears into found flesh
with
fervency and the whole day ahead
shiny
things sped to nest
human
as murder
with
invincible dividing lines
between
what bodies become words
and
the hold of cries raking the sharps
against
how soft clay steals
the
formations of my decay
I
got used to stealing anything I could
penny
candy, baseball card packs
wax
bottles and the occasional comic book
on
the turnstile tall rack near the front
of
the store, I’ve run in small forevers
waiting
to be caught in the poetry
stabbing
the coin operators
I
go from getting high on fumes
to
drinking the contrails burning the night
despite
the warning signs everywhere
that
say, "I will fall"
I
think the trees might catch me
but
they would just as soon impale my ass
because
they keep reaching up
where
I've already been and
they
don't understand gravity
like
I do, they have patience and
the
reach of every mechanism
nature
intended to wait us out with
Spring
cannot come soon enough
I
am already crazy, flowered and
gone
to seed
do
I need to bleed again
to
show you why I like
being
up here
where
flesh fails
to
hold my soul
bite
by bite
day
time turning
again
to night
EJR
©
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