Upon the comal crop, winter, I separate what’s mine. Mimic me.
The burn barrel houses the maul, tetanus lipped in termite corner.
I turn static before the story. Lice in the eye. Lice in the rag.
to form field
In the ink posturings of the orient, I mourn—a fetish.
Black font stitches white none.
Grey birds unstitch their form, abstracting the field, blotting the paper.
As watcher, I acquire their debt and recover the flown script.
I heel a ‘V’ over cock scrawl in fenced dirt. I edit the hectic domestics.
Missive upon terra is recompense. Repent. Record.
and a sentence dropped on fragmentation
in constant pose
in decompose and how to be rare in front of another
the crows, they are innocent
is the locket walked into
to place the face or to pull the sheet over
is the coming of value is the ‘each year the light changes to save itself’
is the locket looked out of
world hung around the neck
every time a door opens
a flash, a glint off metal
Impossible to cut the mouth out.
explain the day.
Hand me down or
hang me over.
or leave without
your preservation from oblivion
your enduction of balmy fragrance
in transition to flue
the dutch door
I could have mourned
I could have stoked the furnace
as I do now
the proper bird
at my window