i’ve got a blackbird in my pocket; he flocked to me
looking for a bite, looking for a bath and something to clear his throat,
parched from calling all night long into the shadows
about the city. the tilt of my sword lies sideways

as he rests his head upon the handle. there’s a kaleidoscope in his eyes
the shifts and shapes the light, the colors into darkness
from about my thigh. i’ve got a blackbird in my pocket
and a handful of feathers in my palm, dark as the soiled night.

No comments:

Post a Comment