Wee Birds


We know birds sing.
We don’t know why.

Not to worry.

Only the songs matter.
Explanations extraneous.

One last, free concert
in a bought, sold,
and delivered world.

Walking the streets,
alone at evening,
jostled by
many spirits:

the Ghost Road
must begin

Siste viator.

Cemeteries of

We are so easily,
so finally

Where do the dead
all hang out
when no one
remembers them?

This may be
the promised end.

You were a puzzle,
wrapped in mystery,
cloaked in enigma.

Fifty years on,
still no solution.

Your tanned thighs.
Your dress’s hem.
Your black eyes

Remnants of wonder.

Once the only algorithms
were common decency
and common sense.

A world that worked
(mostly) without
a single line of code.