my spine a walking cane my crumbling clothes and broken road carved with wheel marks in the mud down the neck of the hills chased the croak of scavenger birds street corner to street corning dragging cast out by the innkeeper go from here grasp the handle of the pushcart to drive it across the crowd how far to throw them so not to know them a colorless procession except for the flags they never cease to wave but when they cross my path I walk the other way where the magpie sings us a car alarm pulled up by a starling flock once again from gathering parchment from the lack bottom to dry off under the fire escape in caverns of entrance ways or anywhere there I'm laying to hide the sleep in rain
