The road might have taken us anywhere butinstead we are surrounded by birds white birdsblack birds all are forced out of metal withgyroscopes and grease they manufacture theirmyths of predation I feel like I’m even more drunkthan I actually am as I watch these enginesintegrate in swoops of sonic energy halted withinthe magnolia shadow where squirrels are formedfrom earth and fencing my soul resides outsidein the loamy garden not in the newspaper columnswhere war is exfiltrated and terminates as sportnot in the sad burning electron streams of broadcastthe bird machines will now proceed to eat myorgans as the rocks roll slowly back down the slope.
Photo by Richard R. Schünemann on Unsplash