The porcelain owl has holes in his head
Shake shake; dada and a mouth full of silver cups
“No,” you say
Not even my own corpse is exquisite enough
A hopeful pile of paper minutes spent folding the mind to empty
The oregano is dying
Or maybe not
The brass lantern hangs noble and lightless in the morning air
“Learn the way…” it whispers to the spiders
The spiders do not listen, spinning on, just where they were
The children with sun in their eyes are watching
Faces crinkled like the purchasers of moldy peaches
Metal wings stuck to a white sky
All seen by the witness who lives in the kitchen
Through the doorway Schubert becomes Chopin and Don Quixote masquerades as Shakespeare
I will forever surprise you with the things I do not know
Your hands imagine roses that bleed and bloom from the inside out
I tape them into place behind the golden circles and tiny elephants.
Holes in the head are rampant here.
A woman sits quietly holding seven secrets, each smaller than the last
A man wearing pointy shoes stands in the corner with a lonely flower in his hand
Both are victims of circumstance
Hopeful, sad, nihilistic
Through the glass hang the gardens of winter
Innocent and helpless against the teeth of the doe-eyed hunters
I am learning that I cannot save everything
The birdbath lies on its side
Toppled by the wind
All waits patiently for the boxes to fill and the walls to fall
A lifetime unraveled to build the next
You and I so loved the last
The last is our acorn
I burry it in my safest pocket
It deserves a reverence yet unfound
The most exquisite burial ground
Another end to build
Another greatness to begin
Taking winged form and vanishing out the glass.
Only a moment and yet it stays.
Planted deep the breath that grows from the empty space.
Some twisting and crawling through the black,
And others vast and total as rainstorms.
Each its worth made clear in hindsight.
No time to catch it.
Only time to walk straight through.
Unknowing of the end or if it will come.
Always knowing that these winged things are the things of devastating wonder.
We dare not choose them;
Ours is the choice to write them down.