Superficial

16708220_10208952052418165_5456016437649641167_nSkim the stone on the surface

watch it butt against reflecting light

until falling through surface

out of sight it drops

to a darkness

or a peace

depending upon your vantage point

I for one would welcome

a life spent below, than above

listening to the mocking calls of unseasonal green parrots

filling trees with their envy

they make everything brighter it is true

yet something about the jarring

competitive nature of their plumage

strikes me as less sincere than

the drab and disliked pigeon with

old face and white circles around

his rumey blinking eyes

who can always be relied upon

to lose a toe in Winter

I think of how often I have watched

something curl to the side of a street

and wait to die

how a part of me felt helpless

inhabiting stages where stories

rent through armor and pierced

my conscience

after the third pigeon in a box

tucked beneath my office shoes

my boss told me

look, this is enough

he preferred I collected his shirts from the dry cleaner

bagfuls of shopping for his wife

my perk was

one day I could grow up to be like him

ignore dying birds in the street

driving silver BMW to my Thursday mistress

whilst another slave worked after-hours

filing life upward like blind builb

it came to me then, ungluing my eyelids

leaving behind one word

WRONG

written in magic marker on his desk

I took the cooing box I’d hidden

and the pigeon and I went home

to a cold flat with no furniture

where he proceeded to try not to die

and I watched understanding very well

the hue of his life

for I am a stone who sank before

she saw the sun and only the moon knows

the way to lift me up

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Winter glass

24469743_c58d88ae1e_m(l.)

Winter glass

is yellowed with old sun

mottled by bird claws

resembling stained relief

a mustard bath

enclosing grief

fields are reaped clear

left to darken

shaken fallow

like wands of sadness

where once they were bright

alive with mice and voles

claiming their hidden kingdom

ears of corn straining upward

unfolding as sun shines

we forget to wipe windows clear

when clouds descend and rivers

freeze

closing off air

closing off movement

we retire in our woolen worlds

tucking our chins against brutal cold

like robins closing their red breasts

and the light that gets in

is tainted

like long left cigarette

stains thumb and forefinger

betraying a little of the smokers emotion

as she holds it

sparking in darkness

inhaling her grief

like swallowing words

goes unseen

beneath the ice of defeat

(ll.)

we who clamor without tongues

who fill our mouths with knowledge

no one is there to listen

we who close our doors at night

to the sound of hibernation

keeping out those who would

tear us from rigid postures

make scarecrows in blizzards

of our rags and scoured bones

for who knows?

how another feels behind walls

or how it feels to be touched by

dirty light letting in the reminder

we are but fields of yellow

turning brown and beginning once more

each time a little less steady

in our long walk

Pull down the night

ffffComing sudden

over hill

scraped light

makes one last trill

before diminishing

beneath black rock

born from ire in

molten wrath

who so ever

dares stand up

to speak truth

will taste their lash

they who fear

forever burdened with ash

it is their weft to

make pillage of attempt

they would pull down the night

forever if it were a fabric

and not the entirety of the world

disguising sight