So i take it off my ceiling, chain it around my neck, wear it to the mountains and back. When i see Wendell in Brooklyn, i show him. He says "that's good medicine."All i want anymore is animal: feathers, skeletons, antlers, incisors, eggshells.
I'm gathering it: rounded, fragile shards and coves of sky the robin chicks burst from; drifts of cloudy down; strangely colored, twisted leaves and twigs shaped like goddess; a spectrum of grass seed fronds. The cats shed transparent claws and thin whisker strands. The hinged leg of a detached birdleg, talon mid-clutch. I pick it all up, press it between pages. Evidence, potsherds, a trail i follow.
What am i piecing together?
I'm gathering it: rounded, fragile shards and coves of sky the robin chicks burst from; drifts of cloudy down; strangely colored, twisted leaves and twigs shaped like goddess; a spectrum of grass seed fronds. The cats shed transparent claws and thin whisker strands. The hinged leg of a detached birdleg, talon mid-clutch. I pick it all up, press it between pages. Evidence, potsherds, a trail i follow.
What am i piecing together?
2 comments:
i will search for a fox tuft for thee. xx.
That last graph, plus last line, is a prose poem, né - just needs a title ... or not -
D
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