Birds Are Spies They Report To The Trees Is Subjective
to give a slowsorrowful reading
a few brass coins
clutched in my bony fists
gathered together
in one room
for the first time
born three years ahead of time
nineteen seventy-nine
throwing shoes at passing cars
fitting initiation
attacked your books with a knife
convincing me you have
nothing to say
the smell of your own work
is the smell of death