bookseller, revving habit/fever
the Wright book, I say.
the poems about the tree,
elbows on the counter.
i say i say i say, leaning in.
a drop of rain
lingers on a pine
needle finds my
finger my lips.
unseen is not vacancy.
-
the question of a pile
of decayed blue feathers-
where does our power
come from?
a magic trick-
off trail recording time
many months and nothing,
though today my
dead bird
is back, disappearing.