Between the ledge
and the drop
mute flocks fly outwards,
empty perches
tilt precariously
over snowy edges.

One volume is held up-
scraps of knowledge
pecking at my eyes.
A memory screeching
in the distance.

Leathery wings unfold.
Scripture and fable
twitter
in the bound pulse
only to erupt
out of dark mouths
glaring like temple beasts.

At the foot
(heaped and hunchbacked)
broken doors gape
through vacant hinges.
Spines still shore-up
notions,
hypothetical heartbeats
in unlatched ribcages.

This apartment
(at last)
has no space for anything
but the flowing calligraphy
of sunlight on bare walls-
the shadows of hands
scribing thoughts.









(C) Eric Ashford August 08