Marks

The blackest bird

Is circling low,

Watching our resigned endeavors.

We're taking down the shelter,

Prying battered boards apart in pieces

Quite uncertain all the danger's truly passed us over,

Unsure the suffering retreated down the road

To break us nevermore.

Your fire eyes are questions.

I hold only empty hands

And scattered tears of distant pools

That drip my fingers,

Make a trail 

That always leads to me again.

So many books of poetry,

So many maps and charts

I never memorized

Now taunting cruel.

A crow

(I think)

Is pecking at the broken glass.

The summer's gone

And left us seasonless.

- 11/3/25