a few improvs

We looked up. The bird held it's beak.
held tighter
to a perch,
to his place in treetop.
he looked at me, down
the long periscope of
filtering branches.

flintsteel glint
in black eye, he
makes no noise.

quiet, reader,
if i can see the glint,
he can see these tears.

perhaps that's why
there is no
song for me.



rails pierce the forest
handrails?
fingernails.

handrails clung to
by fingernails.

i'd like to
fucking get to you

if it weren't for
all these

goddamn
trees.



And land I used to till,
or, land i was,
tilled until the tilling
chilled.

too bad
new tilling can't be
willed.




to disappear, the red carpet, the brown
scab it will become

over time. we rot blissfully
slow into our future selves.

make ignorant
make merry
we're on our way.

don't need to worry
today, anyway.