no title

what's this? this dim, strange mood
suspended in ink and daub and charcoaled words
where words are thoughts and images primed to leap
right through the screen
right from a brain
fingertips midwive the pulse pulse pulse of half-forgotten frag
ments ripped and shorn and dragged three-quarters blue for lack of
breath and weight of darkened soil upon a head
stones
stones
run a nail on through the happy moss
think
loss
but not the loss of living grief
this someplace feel i feel
unbereaved
and taking up my chalk i mark a tree
a bird's wing taking flight
the bird is me