michelle russo


it was bukowski

who wrote of a bird

that was captive in his heart

this morning

I thought I heard a chirp


rusts and yellows damp

scraping against concrete

piling high just after sunrise

one year ago

I raked the leaves of a different tree             (published in Tanka Practice)


every smile

frozen in time

we never see

the outtakes

of our somber selves


hoards of couplings

laughter, pretense

a noisy existence

sea gull in the sky

I’m a lot more like you


always questioning

I forget to leave

s p a c e

for an answer

to appear


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