SIGNS

​

On my walk home, two birds laid faceup
not bleeding or broken. Still as soap.

Door locked from the other side.
Charlie and I still don’t know how

that happens with the door. Every time, we call
George from downstairs, throw him

our keys through the window,
brass glinting all the way down.

Later, home by myself I tape the door lock
in place, like a test, I figure it shouldn’t

 

lock us in anymore, given the tape

and everything. I keep all the lights on,

 

I ask another woman walking home from work,

call to her through yellow heat

 

Do you know what’s up with the birds?

No, she says, her pink nails pointing,

 

those are the third and fourth I’ve seen today.

I ask Charlie, long after a beautiful woman passes,

 

if he still loves me or is he going to leave me.

This incites flight out the house, incites

circling the park over and over,
eyes dilated to dark bowls.

I’ve really got to get over myself.

 

The world blinking, bleeding

(meaning), (meaning), (meaning),

 

What, meaning what? I ask the moon,

shaped tonight like my just-clipped fingernails,

​

Please, what is it I am supposed to know?
I’ve been paying such good attention,

I have notes and suggestible theories
in a notebook I keep just for this.

A wind blows by my window,
singing, and then wind, same wind.

I think nothing is happening
until the moon gets real quiet, keying light

through trees so I think it is thinking,
thinking how best to tell me

what the meaning is. Yeah,
the moon says, rising from his chair,

I’ve got nothin’.