The hackneyed road narrows.
Obsidian winged birds
fly by
Night wades the weary
horizon’s unrest.

I begin again.
Must find a place.
A cat bird
or dogfish
beckoning distance
from cages.

I walk aware
of the love of man
and christ,
how murder is
seasonal change.

It is good to live
alone
willing to fly
distances
with sore winged
desire.

I would be
a bird,
rising to
the occasion,
spreading its wings
in the shape of
a cross.

For what little power
a man walks
listening to the leaves,
his dementia against death.

It takes so little
to be free.
So little
to lose a name
or an address,
walk the fires of grounds,
burning
small truths.

I shall
survive
this terrible road.
My bird shall
sing.