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my spine a walking cane |
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my crumbling clothes and broken road |
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carved with wheel marks in the mud |
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down the neck of the hills |
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chased the croak of scavenger birds |
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street corner to street corning dragging |
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cast out by the innkeeper go from here |
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grasp the handle of the pushcart |
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to drive it across the crowd |
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how far to throw them so not to know them |
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a colorless procession |
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except for the flags they never cease to wave |
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but when they cross my path I walk the other way |
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where the magpie sings us a car alarm |
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pulled up by a starling flock once again |
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from gathering parchment from the lack bottom |
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to dry off under the fire escape |
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in caverns of entrance ways or anywhere there |
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I'm laying to hide the sleep in rain |
