aperitif

it's been said
'hope is the thing with feathers'
yet so is the shrike
whose sharp intentions expose
our guts for what they are

soft,
steaming,
a small feast for any 'thing'

and still we're searching
countless candy bars for that golden ticket
stringing paper-
doll memories along Avalon's
anthropomorphized gate shouting
"your rib cage is a prison"

and
"there's strange fruit in the trees"