February 18, 2014


In the desert
crows caw loudly, 
carry the darkness
of my dreams--
stubborn, black reminders
of where I've
really been.

They gather
outside the door
when I leave,
peck at my
road-kill heart,
get fat 
on someone's
ready-made pain,
waiting in plain sight.

They circle,
like in Van Gogh's field,
looking for anything
I've scared out
into the open,
see every early sign,
knowing even
better than I,
when I will
return, again.