WEBVTT

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Good.

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Maybe it's clearly indicative
of a creative process.

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It's called, Private Pantomime.

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I will reach into the grab
bag of unconscious things

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and pull forward what?

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Here, a fatherless
bird supine in the palm

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of my hand with bony wings
folded inert, beak agape.

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What sort of raw word
explains pin-feathered skin

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and a certain death that
rides in the quivering flesh?

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I turn it out, it falls
with a weighted thud.

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Blood, and the sight of
such weak eyes waiting,

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puts my humor about.

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And I thrust both my hands
into a pair of gloves, tight.

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