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.