The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, June 4, 2021

Poem Excluding City

 The sky was a concussion of clouds
and notorious for dropping everything
at a moment's notice. And the fog,
how it removed everything and then it didn't.
People gathered in the distance and made history
until it hurt. They devoured field after field
with bad ideas and took pride in the
groomed ruins. It was never a photo
opportunity. The mood when the forest
met the asphalt: Too little, too late

--Noah Falck

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