viii
my bird pecks at the hand
muse pecks at the seeds
she pecks to shape rough
edges ledges
where the iron monkey used to lean
dangle freely as a rough stone
yet to tumble in the froth of the wild
river
reaching the delta to build banks of sand
scooped up from broken hour-glasses
my bloody hands build a fire
steady hands build with a smile
hands build to shape change
weaving meaning
the cicada guides the flight of the cock
with dragon tears dancing like loplop
thank you for the blood
O spirit of between
so much better
with a muse in the hand
than a dousin birds on my roof
lining power poles and shitting
at your peering eye as you walk
past
thank you for the blood and hope
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