Silhouette of a bird sitting on a tree branch during full moon. Crows at night.
Photo by Douglas Henrique Marin dos Santos on Pexels.com

A misty green jungle glow
leaves me melancholy high
at mid-morning sigh
the curtains in the kitchen
hold back the ashen stare
of this cell block
with eighty tiny windows
and hands reaching out to pray
for the immoral justice to fade,
fade with the orange gassy glow
of another wet night
of multiple ampersand weddings
and lonely shuffles beneath creaking porch lights …
and I cannot stop thinking of the wandering crows
in those tiny black clothes
and how they blow through the air and into a fractured face
when the hobbling world is overworked or tired
as I light these mystic candles all alone
the mantle missing pictures of all the seas
of you and I at the shores of blue water space
and it’s blessed to imagine
the days we are tightly knit together
our lives wrapped around each other
like newspaper on fish, like wings on wheels
and it’s fun to play life with you
for without you
this game is already over
and I am merely a wedge
stuck beneath an open door
letting all the air out
forever and ever.



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