I was born wanting,
In earth’s muscle. Rooted
to memories like the magpie.
Warm
squallers, we wake fresh.
Flesh-sheet of bone. Bodies never
my way to hold. I like to watch
the spring ash of the sky. Cries
of bad omen, I always trust willfully
the call of the magpie.
Crooning apologies
for misplaced
begging prose. I like to love
in melt-months’ blackberries,
I tend to basket too much.
Their juices past ripe. Like blood
I’ll run slow, sticky on my path,
a trail meant to return to like sugar
ants in a circled haste.
I was born today,
woke to spoon-sweetener and coffee, bitter,
fine. Playing contentment
on the radio again. Again
soft blues and telephone poles, birds
on the wire. Magpie is back,
and it’s past morning. His feather-speech late.
We both enjoy our displacements. We both be praiseful
liars. The magpie
and I
listen and wait.
