Chasing the Burn

the wise bird in its bed. sleeps next to no one. sorting the years into portions of when. time still knew our faces. the broken bridges we must cross. because there is no other way.

the old man inside the child. has paintings to sell. the junkie on the corner. has clarity to offer.

these old maps. boast of places to be.

these nervous ghosts keep to the attic. hoping not to be seen.

but even in my deafness I still hear them.