Silencer with Blues & Birds on a Wire
My mind is playing tricks on me.
Will you miss the lone, stiff mister blue bird
ghosting it through a two-light town, in which
you raise your chicks or cocks in Gothic dens
adorned in old doilies, rooster trinkets,
a sweet aphorism, cross-stitched & hung
above the door? Or maybe you’re me-like,
treading light, an Ave. where birds are called black-
blue—few, but enough for you to notice
each absence. This deafening black swan song
I hear in wind, wrestling dark pansies
against headstones—Dixie fifes. It shivers
my spine in sirens nigh, as wince, whiplash
automatic—yes, bathed in swish of red
& white light, streetlamps crook like Georgia pines.