Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
I meditate the road above;
a humble coat of needles for a cushion.
Cached, supine, by ragged boughs.
The broken willows are in careless piles -
last month's collection by windy fingers.
I wonder at the cool of this shade;
a full fathom less than
April's throttling white light.
Hidden eyes slide around
the highway fliers, tasting their speed.
I dig fingers in their brains to find
where and why they speed away.
My prying stare cracks.
A formation of bold wrens wheels and
turns like a mass of mad barons
and I spill backwards, blanching.
Their chests are tooth ivory, their wings:
perfect charcoal points.