String Lights - Poem by Braden Coucher
The Severe thoughts of the man inside
Dried up on the riverbed,
He sits thinking till he’s glassy-eyed.
The mother bird in the autumn
Tree Shivers without the living leaves.
After the snow, heat again and it floods
A quilted river-bed, a stream
Of consciousness a mile wide.
He lies down under string of lights,
A substitute for a starry night.
While in the next room over
Her fluttered missing baby bird cries,
He hears the sounds of worms in dirt
And while the sand on the beach stirs
The wind still, but still a breeze
Tricks his mind, Packs the sand
Till it's stone again and cools his neck
With flurried skims. He hears
The baby bird making flapping sounds.
His eyes marbleize as a single feather
Spins a whirling craze in gentle wind.
Above his head it lowers slow
Grazes his cheek, lands in the snow,
The white dries up as he stares at stars
The river builds, dies into a stream
And it fills his mouth with sweet serene
The feather dried, just a hallow bone
Stuck in his teeth made of river stone.
The severe thoughts dried out,
Covered in fluff and mama bird, still alone
Drops to the sand and turns to bone.
Then sand and dried up river bed
Under string light starry nights instead.
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