BITTER

Hunting-tip arrow
Breeches the heart,
Defunct meat brings only
Carrion. Am I dead?

Hanging in the balance
(be not too panglossian)
a word suffices to incline the scales to
Madness…

Stumble.
Where’s the rug??
In your hands, don’t
Negate.

The bird twitters in her glided cage,
But she cries when the door is opened.

Ironic.

Security,
Indian gift, indian giver?

Am I to smile??