crows on the third line.

I begged the flutter of morning
to break me
like an empty egg shell
between skeleton fingertips.

because the hushed
neon blue air
spiked with songbirds,
gripped my throat
like a rabid snake
hissing lullabies
in a sadistic tone.


it's like a messenger
for those silent flash backs,
enveloped in chiffon jaundice
that strike the heart
like arteries
clogged
with fat.

for the most part,
I am a grave yard statue.
my stone fingers laid out
awkwardly,
awaiting fractures
caused by saltwater.

riddled with rheumatic dreams,

and wavering,
ever so slightly,
in a breeze that my skin tastes
as if it were the heated breath of a lover
right after sex.

I pressed my toes
into the foam of the shoreline
in the vinyl dust of sunset.
among dead fish eggs,
and delicate strings of sunlight
in the cold water;
I created wet footsteps
and sang about crows
on train tracks,

and how scared I was

that they may step
upon the third line.



scorched black feathers
would be too relevant.

and there is an ebony coating
on my heart.


so I pray for the milky sun
to be a sledgehammer
to my chest.
like a canopy in
an opal dust storm
of runaway orchids,
and familiar scents
left on stained pillows.