Still it comes in the white day
over yield signs, highways -
from the insomniac magpie's
botched theft of balcony almonds.
Who later get rundown by casual traffic,
pancaked feathers swept to the curb.
Something raps the sliding door
but, isn't there anymore.
Still it comes a black eyed dog
whose saliva incisors bear the name
on your documents. Having your current address
some trick of the light. Slide down the tub
and plug your ears for sinking.
This change won't come free
from the pocket of your jeans, it's a fight
to spend the time you take it all in -
and still it isn't yours.
In this bricked hovel of a nave
a statue of mary is missing an arm
and the wind in the ivy goes hushed
for the high laughter of children
an alley over - still it comes as a reflection
on glass. Whatever's behind rendered a dog's breakfast:
a palm, a mug, a magazine half opened
to a photo of the sea.
It comes
breaker after breaker redefining the shore.
A collection of offerings darkens the door.
Seeking your saving, your lust, after more.
A blacklight and white darker than before.
What a ravishingly beautiful poem, Jesse.
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