971.
I am harpy,
and wen the kyng,
defys the gods
by prophesying,
then Zeus full wroth
orders kyng unfed.
i fly to Thrace,
i steal his bred.
972.
another half-forgotten
cemetery that’s tossed out
all the rules. most of
the gravestones are sprawling
with lopsided abandon in
the sun, the fence is dissolving
into forest, and an errant
morning glory has chosen a one
winged angel as a dancing
partner. as for me, I’m borrowing
someone else’s ancestors.
back against the warm stones of
a crumbling mausoleum,
I sip my coke and finish a gas
station sandwich. I get that
rules are the glue that holds us
all together, but as I watch
the morning glory and the angel
waltz in the wind, I wonder if
maybe its the dead who truly know
how to live life to the fullest…