Wanderings

Bits of dreams stray into my waking day
a woman's voice singing into my ear
that I am neither asleep nor awake
reminds me of weeds creeping past
concrete. I await the cue to speak again.

There are vultures tapping on the door.
Their eyes slide across the edges
of the tempered glass, peeking in,
mouths open wide, like baby birds,
in anticipation. Don't let them in.

Six ravens fly overhead, black wings
against an October sky. I listen to her voice,
against the guitar strings, talking about an
ordinary day as I thread the needle to sew
the tear in the back of my mind.


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