floating and leaving no trace
somehow i sliced
a small arc into
the skin below
the first knuckle
and now it is a red
waxing crescent
much like the imprint
of an invisible
sharp fingernail
digging in
either in anger or fear
moon in the west
after sunset
cyclopian señor wences
don’t ring the bell
unless you know what time it is
i’ll tell you
for whom it tolls, my scrawny
little bit of circumstance
something black flashes
in the grass
exactly the way
light doesn’t expand
overhead the sun blazes
behind a white cloud
and casts a long black shadow
across the sky
an oil slick on blue
underground
moving toward me
the bones in my feet
phalange proximal metatarsal
vibrate with its approach
something insensate and unilluminated
flashes underground
knowing me without knowing
i am a stained glass saint
and you are a high-pitched
tuning fork pressed against
my flattened multiple colors
you ring
i respond
with crack and shatter
fake gems from a pirate
souvenir shop scattered on
the floor
the red ones are my hearts
the blue ones whatever resolve
i kept in check
more hot lead
and patience
will be required
the only thing
i have ever seen
from looking inside
is
the insides of my eyelids
the crow pecks at the ground
slim pickings in this heat
he can remember when it wasn’t
too hot for picnickers
and little kids covered in pale sunscreen
half their faces hidden by too-big sunglass
he remembers pulling trash
from the cans at the park
especially after birthday parties
when there was the chance to find
a partial hot dog still in a bun
old dried cake with the frosting licked off
crepe streamers to spread on the grass
maybe some broken doritos
his brothers don’t know
how good they had it
and now drink water from the gutter
and peck among the slivers of
squirrel gnawed pinecones
he remembers a piñata
the sound of wood on hollow papier mâché
the glittering explosion of candy
for a moment he forgets to peck
this is a window
but you think
you are outside
i pull you back
until you see
the frame
the sill
the sudden reflection
of light on glass
your own ghost
like pigment transferred to acetate
marbled, colorful, but hardly there
a film’s second exposure
and through that the world
you think you see
with your eyes
the sky is a blue jaw
filled with scattered
broken teeth
no blood
no pain
just exposed and shattered enamel
pearls left to drift
carved out and
carving out
like ivory islands
which is another way
to address the bones of
the sky
look up to keep
from looking
the metallic squawks
of other birds
rise and scream
ascend descend ascend
and count and count
and count and demand more time
and you’re out
jump free
of your chains
bury yourself in sand
laughing squawking counting
the grasshopper on the wall
as long as a dodger dog
leaps at our approach
smacks-face-first-bam
into the wall opposite
falls into the rosemary
Words and Feathers 