December 23, 2010
Every morning dawn-light I watch
my thoughts these colored birds fly circling
far above the trees, sharp shapes on blue. Goodbye.
Mid-day down they drift, ripped and torn
like confetti from third-story windows
above a parade route, unable to wing it.
What thoughts? Neither bright nor bold,
nor fitting, not returned nor overturned:
my brain folds up, rusty and bent
like buckled railroad ties that can’t
hold a train.
2010 - 2019
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