Browsing The Last Library
Turning the page of questions
unasked
are we fiction
or nonfiction, these last days?
I know I'm not myth
despite the crows.
I dreamed of a red bird flying
with a yellow bird on his shoulder.
Red bird sweeping the blue years before him
over the threshold of night,
yellow bird singing her golden drops;
honey-blood rain as sticky and sweet
as yesterday's rotting bright heart.
Who holds the pen,
so obsolete?
I know it's not me,
scrawling directions to hell
while the mimosa fades
just some fiction caught on the teeth,
Prometheus's keyboard
dancing to the pecking of crows.
