waking up to the birds
the infant season
cries earlier and earlier
need,
the dog paws up a pallet of thatch
satisfied to hear me say here
go or lie down from time to time,
and inside i'm also satisfied
with the feeling of a new bird
falling from trying
drawing the failure out in euphoric swoops,
so far up, if anyone cared to watch the sky,
the empty skull would stir with only me
the only shadow in that whitewashed bone
the only wet and beating thing in that years dry head,
anyone could watch it happen
until i fell out of view
the end of their story of me
ricocheting without grace
through brittle capillaries
bent invisible
and flicked to the earth,
the morning won't register
anything amiss
june 5, 12
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