Saturday, March 5, 2016


my mother did not bear me to metaphysical platitudes.
she pushed me out like a package through her purple crucifix,
her luxurious black fur a bramble at earth's door.

i spend my years recycling energy through this flesh flap

and yet somewhere in the tops of the branches of the greenish-white sycamore
which grows stubbornly from the crescent of my mind, sings a bird -

sings a bird whose song is not earthly.