After the funeral, I dipped out of my dead
end street. I crisped in the glow of lawns buzz
end street. I crisped in the glow of lawns buzz
cut to the soil’s fur. As I spilled into the city veins
of weathered tar, I saw a cherried cig unfurling
in the windy mouth of an intersection, but it was flames
of frayed wings as I trolled closer. I braked in flumes
of traffic and knelt down to the fizzling gulp
of fire. I cupped the cardinal in my cracked
bird bath of hands as it shook like a storm-torn
leaf. When we got home, it crawled back
into my palm, maybe anticipating the luxury of a bowl of bleeding
berries, or tender beak rubs. I thought I just smelled like a sexy bird
or it was so spooked it couldn’t move. And when I carried it to my craquelured
porch, its holly berry body flicked into forest like ember spit through black winter air.