Friday, but not my town poem


but not my town, a hawk flies &

wings in the air make trilling sound

imagined, as

the screech above and

outside my door puts the hair

to raise up on my arms.

I am thinking of you again,

not for nothing but

need for magic.  And men.

My mother, I finally

told her to go.  It had been

a management of tasks,

a bee swarm of honey &

skin made red, trying

to avoid the sting.  It is

confusing the say of stay

the need, help, the help that

happens best from standing

still.  This happens alone.


In the greenery outside my door

where hawk trills &

I rescued lizard

and spider, but she

lost a leg.  It is new moon

again, I here your laughing

music play the distance

between us like theater

sounds at curtain call.  I want

more than this,

I always did.



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