Morning bones, cracked at the seams,
splice themselves into subway-tag poetry.
Ignore the crowd, they’ll trace
their own lines
back to when the post-
man knew where to go.
Still damp letters in stilettos
march and fall through city
grates that can smell soar feet.
But these feet write semaphore
that only sing
when you read backwards on
pages wind-blown forward,
east of the garden.
from other people’s lives, hearth tales, fireside
songs, thirteen-year old misfit
adventures crouch and whisper their
the corners, feed
a hungry pen, growling
for colors on gray paper.
Once you can no longer smell the parchment,
and life begins.