inner art journal

 

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