THINGS I FOUND IN A DEAD MAN’S POCKETthe song of a bird I can’t see, but I think is colorfula portion of a cloud folded in half that I suppose is a dream;unfolding it, it was torn like a dreamwind from the edge of the Grand Canyon and the whooshing sound of unanswered puzzlementsthe last breath of exhausting spiritual habitsan unforgiveness; small, but with razor-sharp edgesa thank you note from a poet who, long ago, was his poetry studenta handful of rest from the overcast day he read Matthew 11prayers for his children, like styrofoam peanuts,filled all the empty spaces…
