Dark Poems

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Omens

The dead bird, color of a bruise,

and smaller than an eye

swollen shut,

is king among omens.

Who can blame the ants for feasting?

Let him cast the first crumb.

We once tended the oracles.

Now we rely on a photograph

a fingerprint
a hand we never saw

coming.

A man draws a chalk outline
first in his mind

around nothing

then around the body
of another man.

He does this without thinking.

What can I do about the white room I left
behind? What can I do about the great stones

I walk among now? What can I do

but sing.

Even a small cut can sing all day.

There are entire nights

I would take back.

Nostalgia is a thin moon,
disappearing

into a sky like cold,
unfeeling iron.

I dreamed

you were a drowned man, crown
of phosphorescent, seaweed in your hair,

water in your shoes. I woke up desperate

for air.

In another dream, I was a field

and you combed through me
searching for something

you only thought you had lost.

What have we left at the altar of sorrow?

What blessed thing will we leave tomorrow?


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