Pane #Quadrille


Tapping rain becomes the omen,
blackbirds pecked once here before,
feeding at your safety harness
before the window cut through your shade
and more; crumpled, slain, within your own
reflection, you are shattered glass singing
shrill and bleakly, before quietly resting,
as confetti floor.

Thoughts like Blackbirds


Why are we going so fast? It’s like sitting
on one of those new sewing machines –

Trains rush by wishing they could fly
because blackbirds don’t come here anymore.

What are those black marks then?
They’re all smeared now – were they crying?

Is it the sky again, pretending tears like rain;
just like you did, or was that your dad?

We’ll soon be past those freckles up there. I told you,
there are no more blackbirds to peck at your soul,

no more ants because we only buy fresh –
those are good grains in that bread – eat up.

stains and sewing machines; they never went this fast.

I wish she could keep up with the window as we ride,
but time and oily marks appear inside of lopsided lenses,

inside of those the countryside flits by at 125 mph
and her tired grey eyes can’t take it; her silver

hair drops as she watches crop circles in the carpet.
I eat my sandwiches on scratched Formica, steadying

my coffee’s plastic rumble on the surface while inside
my heart breaks watching the sweeping insensitivity of old age.



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