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I left my heart in a river and drove away

what’s left lifted by the scavengers

to god on black, flapping wings.

I called in a favor, right off the highway.

I said to god,

how many folks have I brought to you

with this bleating, punched at, bottomless thing?

and I don’t even believe in you but I believe

this foamy, bluesy river has more room than my lived-in

body so send in the birds –

with a sigh the cottonwoods shook from green to white,

five heavy crows dive-bombing the scene loud as a chopper.

I blew god a kiss and started to untie my heart like a pair of old

sneakers   splashes in the river   out it fell

wars I began   interrupted marriages   eyes with teeth

eyes that lie   eyes never saying sorry    moments

when I was neither brave nor good     demons who feed me   family I don’t have

hungry lovemaking       fences with no gates    foreclosure

knives I sharpened to give away     you, who I try to forget

poison   coming back for more      cords I cannot cut

in a word   my humanity –

The birds don’t care.  No crow I know has ever said,

    I catch you on every breeze, you are everywhere to me

god made them to circle and dive,

to take from this world into the next –

It’s a relief not every creature lives simply to

collect memories that amplify pain.

We’re still uncovering the biology of this.

I suspect all rivulets and oceans have an answer –

these wheels have a singular job, to make perfect circles

every time, one lazy lead-foot on the gas while the

sweet, diaphanous lemonade of early summer dusk

swallows me; sneakers on the power line,

catching a breeze.