Morning with a favorite. Still under the blankets. All I can think of are birds. Petah Coyne's dead, still birds. The giant hanging masses of ash. Chandeliers of dead things. Flowers made of wax. Sol LeWitt's math, all of his chalk and crayon on the walls. Grids of planning. Now, take away the grid. Peel back the mask. What do you see? What will be left when the lines that propped up your words are stripped away? Can you stand on your own?
I am digging through the manuscript of the first, the only, year I did 365. So many new poems will come of this. Mass MoCA is still stewing in my head. Even frozen feathers make me think of movement. I've seen dead birds in the gutter and expected them to dust off the grit and maggots, take flight like nothing was ever wrong.