A twisted
cat rears its ugly
ass into the sky
as if to performs
some elder necromancy
on the corpse
of a nighthawk.
Later that night,
I use my cell phone
as a flashlight
to confirm
the identity of the bird,
But it is nowhere
To be found.
The "goatsucker"
is mostly active at night.
It started
With the wind.
Mimicked
The sound of bones.
The cat hallucinates
Terrible
teenage encounters,
Sheds like a sycamore.
Leaf shadows hover
over ancestral grounds.
I rake the path,
but never travel it.
Palms facing
always somewhere other.
Two
orbs entomb
my parents ashes.
Barked
at by a squirrel,
eyeballed
by an owl.
A raven,
despite its dead
metaphors,
follows me
like a satellite.
It seems it's always something.
Granite outcrops
shift into
unrelenting thunder
and Dagon dredges
elk shed from the stone.
Tilt your head into
a landslide
and pray
from upside down.
Dangle your
wolfhand
from the darkness
of the river
and commit a crime
of bibliomancy—
The story always pans out the same.
Bone in snow
covered spring,
will you tell
us what you know?
The thaw leaves
traces in maps of ice.
What abomination
will we dream now?
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