The Eve of the Eve

The time draws near,
the eve of the eve
expect visitors . . .

The Last Chance

The myna bird speaks
of love. His whistle
cuts into the bone
ears of a whitetail's
head stuffed above
the bar.

Fifty miles the county's
dry. You stop here
to tell yourself
go home but hear
the black experience
of a goddamned bird

whose hello sucks
at the marrow
of your bones.
You wonder how a soul
can pass from
his beak and break

upon your face, split
the whiskers you grew
to be wise in. You wonder
at his avalanche of words,
the last drink you took,
the dance on your skin

you can't beat time to.
You wonder, but you
do not ask. You
listen hard with
your cracking eyes.
He asks about your life.

You tell him lies
while he preens
a feather, lets it drop.
Your life is sour
on the glass. Crow
made the earth and all

things therein, brought fire.
This bird's a ghost
you tell your sins.
Nobody is listening.
Outside the sun falls
into the brittle grass.

by Jim Barnes (b 1933)
in Sundown Explains Nothing, 2019 (p 139 - 40)
Additional posts: FN & QK & KL