dark feathered birds
small town frenzied charade a story for every question lock your name inside
when you whisper the verbs are guilty of the same flawed thinking
thin dreams and a full moon grab the stars to keep for a darker night
you are unbound so small read every travel brochure map it out
the crows pluck words from old phone lines they muddle together
translate old conversations into field notes for the existentialists
they have amazingly fine penmanship rarely argue
they all agree that no one cares about Heidegger
there are layers of what is like a country fair booth of ring toss
but you have no drift or swerve you must invent your own logic
trade a sure bet for the lives you do not keep small scale
like Sunday School Mary Janes with white turned-down sock
foreign alphabet in the guest house
there is an argument that goes on and on
until a meaning that the mind creates
settles in a house with crows and bits of paper
how it really happens is a truth of sorts
a second language dressed in silver hoops
and old war tunes
you have a constant need for surprise
entertain a foreign alphabet in the guest house
all languid and lace and no shade
an accident is mostly hearsay
with a cloud flurry of white lies
scraps of evidence without music
the always hungry are at the mercy
of whatever they think they know
dollar store rivalries in the parking lot
but truth will not be framed
not even in heirloom gilt or rough cloth
with such poor stitching at the seams
bargaining seeps into everything
every one’s childhood goes missing
the way a river will follow itself
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
