She said to me: "your ode to the moon 
is a bird pecking frantically 
at light in a dirty puddle – 
futile but for its shit on the pavement, 
which was at least warmer and brighter, 
than anything you had to say." 

And I turned the words over in my hand – 
what I had imagined was a sparrow – 
was indeed without life, 
its fluttering not a heartbeat nor untested wings, 
but the wind blowing scraps of fortune cookie tropes 
from the empty nest of my pages. 

The terrible sound that followed – 
like endless boxcars empty of thought 
rattling across the plains – 
the sky a million points of darkness 
as locusts of Haiku descended, ravaging 
and leaving only stubble in their wake.

The Sunday Muse

Fun Facts in today's paper,
an obituary from 125 years ago –
one Lottie Porte , 21,
"for whom the Angel of Death 
has brought her spirit welcome release."

I think yes, that is it, exactly,
no soft "passing" –
when I go, leave me to a winged avenger
with her flaming sword,
my mortal coil severed at a stroke.

Do not then write about me gently –
leave my shadow spiked
on the sharp hands of midnight, 
my last hours and minutes 
spear tips pointed to the sky.

Thank you Lottie, may you rest in peace,
you lead me to the gate
where a language of dying swings –
leave me now to mourn and grieve
the loss.  

The Sunday Muse