here the dead orbit us
& most everything whistles
except for the teetering pines
& the ducks cut from paper

no two ever say it the same though
they have come close in the middle
where the maze takes on heat
& they are making believe they can hack it

I’m not a supper person per se
but I may have been swayed by what glaze
they’ve slapped onto the bird
so much like the sun lowering onto my chin all aglow

while you are one with the dust & the dung
a shotgun hyphened at your chest
the leaves rusty & taken with death
as you breathe in more matter

I am finished with truth
& how it tastes to my tongue
of philosopher’s busts
& light so antiquated it shuns us

here I am speaking of it in a photograph
as well as the lack left by laughter & drinks
like the splash come to ice
that next mishap

sure its past can be taken up
each moment worried into a plea
whose memory is a wheel &
whose flag is still blank