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In morning's textured dark
The maws of yawning crickets
Express the planet's whispered melancholy.
Painting with a dawn brush
This un-still life.
A lock-jawed dumpster
Spouts the frustrated cackles
Of a soul thief.
October's crow blusters
At discarded packaging, commercials, words
Written on fat-stained paper.
What's left of a man approaches
And shoos
And takes what the black messenger leaves behind.
copyright 2016
Miguel
Eichelberger |
