A bird I can’t identify by its red markings visits me, holding a
playing card in its beak. I feel elated to finally be remembered. But
when I grab for the card, the bird darts away.
Come back, I yell, and the bird does. I realize then that its markings
are actually splashes of paint or maybe even blood. The shock wakes me
I once took thirteen years to write a poem, if you count the mass of
scar tissue that throbs in our dreams.
©2012 This work is the property of the author.