poo tee wheet says the bird
from the shelter of cedar
at the edge where it’s heard
a soft sun warms spirit.
it moves in the shadows
ghostly and vague
to an angle of repose
with up tone, then down
and no branches breaking
the volume of a call
not loud, not soft.
Those who leave
Find a twist of the soul
And cigarettes don’t last too long,
Which frustrates the best
In this stumble of sadness,
That sour taste in the mouth
When a last drag is done
And melancholy breezes lack a name.
Requires a hand to turn this way
Then over, without effort or care,
But how to catch up while gasping
All we cannot remember, think we’re beyond,
Every moment in one, packed in that duffle bag
With just enough room when you leave
And never enough to return,
So common for people to imagine
A life spent idly by the sea.
The sound, rhythm of water to shore
A coming home, over and over
Occupying an edge, on the point
Before another possible one.
March 18, 2017