stone birds nest

stone birds nest

in the creases

of my heart

they sing

the emerald song

of the mountain

from which

they were made

a ghostlike herd

of granite horses

pours into the valley

of my spine

an equine avalanche

with jeweled eyes

like embers

with steaming manes

that swallows hurtle from

to the directions of this world

dark swallows that carry

the stone songs

to the trees

and the tree songs

back to the mountain

beyond my eyes.

Pink Flag

this town has been dead for generations

a diagonal sun casts corrugated shadows from the slumped rooflines

here we find our work ravelling the rusted intestines

here where we reassemble ourselves

our place of vision       so to speak

two kids following the train tracks like a dry stream bed

pick up a pink umbrella left inside-out by the wind

taking turns they wave it overhead     their vibrant eviscerated flag

another dream to collapse into another evening

I light another cigarette to prolong my vigil                          

the calculus of this place cascades over the ledge of observation

no one is entirely still or isolated

the death that comes is what daily divides us.