Crow Name

"Really, if you say, like out of a movie, I will leave." Well, so now what do you do? It was, out of a movie. It was that one where two strangers meet, then realize they always knew one another because the scriptwriter said they were soulmates; we were all sitting there watching and actually believed it, then began to walk around wondering, when will we meet ours?

You walk through the streets. It's night. Not too crowded. Still plenty of late night spots trying to get your attention. Too bad for them you're not here to spend. Just to see. There's beauty in the world, even in the cramped main streets of a small city. Some of it's in the people. The ways they act and intermingle; a handful of destinies and desires crossing paths.

How lucky the birds are: free, able to fly at a whim- I, though dying to fly to him, must gather more than limbs to go: cash, pages, stamps hoist luggage onto ramps, tell the immigration officer, "please, staying will kill me."

before the sun cracks its galactic shell, Bob Ross on the television in a whisper, brush wisps against canvas, me sipping tea, my crescent lips crescendoing into smile. What does it matter, if I finish the poem now or end it later?