you're a million dollar industry
or maybe


a million small handfuls
and we all want a piece.
until you're


dented you're missing

you're bent in


you're creased.
this town we pay rent in-

there's no
formal lease.

only quiet lost men.

stand in handfuls on sidewalks
and beat

their shoes and their heads in
put sand in

their hands and
watch their hourglass
leak.

what we're wondering is
if no birds are

on earth
then what beings will
bring us
to sunlight, to
stardust, to smokescreens
and dirt.
to that feeling when you
wake and embrace



the five thousandth
occurrence of
your own
rebirth.
how will any of us know
when it's spring,
will we follow



the moon
as fireflies dim
and glowworms die
at our feet.