there used to be a goose
that hung around the neighborhood.
The thought drifted across me
the other night,
a purple bruise, blooming matter-of-factly
across dimly lit memories.
He couldn't fly, I think
every time I passed him by
he was alone.
I wonder if he could feel the concavity of the heart
as I do in this moment, the memory of him
a vein running deep through my consciousness-
I wish I could disappear like him, feel a certain peace,
tranquil like the lazy twilight
or a bird's wing, hanging limply.
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