Crows gather in the Cottonwood tree, blacker than night holds me. Even the birds are our children here if we see ourselves as becoming land and sky.
Blacker than night holds me, shadows and dreams of sleep. If we see ourselves as becoming land and sky, we may never sleep again.
Shadows and dreams of sleep that poke me awake with skeleton fingers. We may never sleep again, lost to the fascinatingly hateful chatter of crows
that poke me awake with skeleton fingers. It’s not the death of our planet that scares me, lost to the fascinatingly hateful chatter of crows, it’s the death of us that rakes me awake.
It’s not the death of our planet that scares me, night terrors of holding our children over the flames, it’s the death of us that rakes me awake. Crows invite death into today’s sun.
Even fighting, we may go down without sound. Crows gather in the Cottonwood tree, each day brings new air and chatter. Even the birds are our children here.
there is only my shadow
on an open empty road.
Central Avenue is deserted,
as if we built the world
for ourselves, then weren’t
able to live in it.
Our world, a dead tree cut
into circles, chopped like
pieces of hotdog or carrot rounds.
A roadrunner crosses
the rough cracked asphalt,
a silent yellow fire hydrant
in a green yard.
All that is left is a ghostbike
to memorialize us, all the beads,
all the trinkets that hang from it.
Even inside our house,
the meditation pillow
tries to be the rug. My child
disappears into a box,
his coat hanger book report
hangs alone, waits
to go back to school someday
in some uncertain future.