I listen to the tune
of rust growing on the bridge.
My jig breaks stones,
my dance expands the earth
breathing, heaving, turning.
a lost soul preaching sin
fear, loss, his placard
the crowd surrounds him
jeering, he exhorts them
In darkest gloom
of late night,
the idea of dawn
We woke the river
with our laughter.
It ran away,
decayed and dried.
In its wake
I run my fingertips down its spine
Open up its heart and smell the musty odour
Its dirty dust jacket fingered and thumbed
And the tops of its paper turning piss yellow
We the pigeons of circular flight
circumvent our escape route
for cages rule us
in to returning
I saw a dead bird outside of the restaurant. The ants had picked the skin and meat off the head, leaving the rest of the body intact. I looked at the bird for a couple minutes.
I did not know how it died, or how long it had been there, lying dead on the concrete. The trail of the ants could be traced going back into the grass, where the clumps of blades created a forest. I left after two minutes.
-A bird soared over
Black and white, day and night
I don't know which time I like anymore
Rain when done, moonlight fun
Lost myself forevermore
as if in quarantine writing alone
the tent far removed from the rest,
a room in an abandoned asylum wing
to prevent contagion, sitting hunched