Skip to content

Dead Letter Office

sunlight moves like a broom
through wild worldspinning grass

the grackles in the trees are machines
tuning up & ready for the day’s

music no one would recognize
a heartbeat on the edge of familiar

songs written in dead languages
& trees that grow twisted on the plains

could be the old hair metal guitar
that escaped the pawnshop wall


Discover more from Coyote Mercury

Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.

Published inPoems

3 Comments

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.