in which
some dusty-ish
finches are happily thrashing
and chirping away
in curbsides
of old
gutterwater.
How many? What color?
I no longer
feel compelled to remember.
For no images
presented here
are facts; they're merely
encouraging interpretations.
Whatever
they conjure, these words
aren't the truth;
they conjure, these words
aren't the truth;
they're just it's swift little
messengers.
And I—I am just
a word too,
however useful
and inspiring to you—as some
swift little vagabond
birds were.
messengers.
And I—I am just
a word too,
however useful
and inspiring to you—as some
swift little vagabond
birds were.