I awoke at dawn to the lamenting of the wind
struck against the stone walls.
I listened; an elegy,
lyricised upon the breeze, breathed mourning
into the waves which teased the stone to rubble…
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I wish I could live through something.
I’m trying to fold truth from fiction like how we used to crook our fingers into
church spires, over and over, reaching inside for something hidden.
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Every morning, the woodpecker would perch
on the oak, hammering, rattling bark
until we heard it sloughing down the tree.
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If you begin by zeroing in on the rings around his eyes if you
turn your head like all those turned-on before you gleaming up
like sweaty moons bobbing on their axes & if you follow
the smoke leaking out his ears hanging off his tongue my bet
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All morning I’ve been building to a blubby sticky chord.
This would explain the footprints, I thought
someone was following & every time I turned they
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