Bird Land
Lenore Weiss
07/02/2016
It’s hard to be a bird Do what you were born to do Knowing no one’s Gonna come back Flying through the trees To feed you your grub Like in
Posts
It’s hard to be a bird Do what you were born to do Knowing no one’s Gonna come back Flying through the trees To feed you your grub Like in
I saw you wearing a NYPD T-shirt subscribed to your graveyard of ex-lovers buried behind the house near the burn pile incinerated from memory a lead-in to a song coming
Walk down the hill from the Historic Mayfair Hotel, the room is clean and the water hot, costs less than other places, forget about getting breakfast at the Convention Center,
Down the stairs of my condominium and across Campus Drive I walk along Leona Canyon Open Space Preserve. In April and May, I canter past an expanse of wild radish
I’ve sworn off cubicle life sitting in front of a screen. Many emails mean I have to stay up late studying spreadsheets of a growing predicament, my destiny to telecommute, weekend from home. I’ve sworn off
Before the city had cut down pecan trees for the mall, before your brother was diagnosed with cancer, before the crazy woman moved into the fishing cabin, brown earth stretched