of this life, it is
piles of books, clutter
and the haphazard chatter
of birds this morning.
the frogs last night. fitful.
at times unfit, others
perfect, bereft
of dissonance.
living is
collected pages memorized,
forgotten when it matters
most. times
of abundance, inevitable
like decay. in this
way we navigate
the streets and alleys
of our lives, begging alms,
window shopping, tripping
over the refuse of falling
time. we seek our gates
amidst the squalor, find
a home and bury
our wings.
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