Arthritic hands
--laced and limbless—
perch the fog.
Blackbird mutters about the hollow
men plagued by syntax.
I ask the significance of hawks and tornadoes,
or of my belly pregnant with ideas too obligated
for my inadequacies.
The wind rattles with shells of brilliance
that cease to live--up to--
Blackbird follows me.
Ich kann ihn nicht vergessen.
He's the hollow, follows me,
shouting loss failure loss.
He drops cordials from enticing heights,
wishing to invite me
while yester-bodies scrape by at a crawl.
What's the significance of a pale face with moons for eyes?
And a demeanor level like Dresden.
Ich kenne ihn nicht.
Silence fails like the combative noise of trying.
I'm not a war criminal.
Blackbird mutters, moons are stones, too.
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