As one
round little
black pebble eye at a time—unflinching
gyrates back
and forth again to pierce—with needling beak
the mottled measly
scraps of a bygone
November payed
parking lot lawn for whatever—my hulking shadow
and I
come flooding
by—directed by the same
instantiation of wind
to focus—even more narrowly
on how
on-point
the bakery's black
coffee tastes this morning.
