I admit little deaths.
City lung-shards                                      pulp cigarettes.
Dust, zero aperture.
So the causeway imitates                                      the dial of weathervanes
My caws’ red-combed sweeping.
Eyes as the reason                                     we can’t see, I toss
the seed into the river.
As if a penny can turn itself.                                      In a palm,
gleaming. I become
an albeit.                                     A black cat licks
his eye-whites clean.
A gibbet moon                                      banana ugly.
Cyclone metal
guns skeletal                                      and fences nothing.
Smaller, my whine pines
the taste of mud.
A tractor bleats                                      diesel rattle
so we list ourselves.
Ribbed fern sway                                      mistakes breathing.
No returns, a hinge
clamps each shutter.                                      I shiver back.
In the garden, a woman
stuffs her mouth with quarters                                      to count them.

I swallow to watch her.

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