my spine a walking cane
my crumbling clothes and broken road
carved with wheel marks in the mud down the neck of the hills
chased the croak of scavenger birds
street corner to street corning dragging cast out by the innkeeper
go from here
grasp the handle of the pushcart to drive it across the crowd
how far to throw them so not to know them
a colorless procession except for the flags they never cease to wave
but when they cross my path I walk the other way
where the magpie sings us a car alarm pulled up by a starling flock once again
from gathering parchment from the lack bottom to dry off under the fire escape
in caverns of entrance ways or anywhere there
I'm laying to hide the sleep in rain
