Posted in Art, Poetry

reaching


reaching 4/2020

nothing to be
‘cause there’s nothing to see
under the wing of a blackbird

their squandered love
paid for the bed
slept in many a night

and the windows crack
on poor momma’s back
while the feeder remains empty

the dirt in her skirt
removed the dead skin
him floating in heaven again

and the blackbird returned
the feathers she borrowed
hoping he’d get out of her head

Nothing in this poem is true, as far as I know. Simply a fantasy burrowed. Displayed. 🖤

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