Never-ending Vending Machine

Raven’s charcoal wing
chalked white with dust stands
awkwardly, trying to fly away
without Raven’s bloated
body.

Charcoal soot chalks
white lashes shading
my ebony eyes
as they dart across the dust,
searching.

Tides will shift, with them-
memories. Water
dances around me
like music in a
morgue.

I do not know
warmth. But I am
not cold. My hand houses the
golden note which
nourishes

more completely
than food ever could.
They took all I had
because I loved another
woman,

all but the bread –
they did not know
that the real food
was hidden
within.

This ring is
real.

You disparage a
life of grime encrusted
fingernails, where
happiness is a bird
laying dead in the
dust.

I cannot find my
wife.
2.16.05

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