Three poems


Walking

and there at my feet

a dead bird newly fallen

poised on its belly, its beak

stuck

into the grass

as though this unblemished bird is on display

as though its streak of industrial yellow

across the end of its tail feathers

a warning

to me

to yield

to this sacrifice

for my need

to feel something poetic

this day

After Reading James Tyner Poems

I want to cry blue and white threaded words

kneeling

in dirt fork to throat

red sparks reflecting in puddles in glass in plastic cracks

filled with black

seeping

from tendons from fingers

ratty

as shattered love

cold

against porcelain–

trolleys drunks passing shouting

three stories