rained from the trees and reminded
us they were filled with blood.

one in particular stayed. he raised 
his breastbone like a flag

and laid in the open like a sovereign
nation. i would check on him every morning,

a tropical flower. eventually he found
his way into an alley. he enraptured stray cats 

with his philosophies. and then he was gone.
maybe he buried himself. a hefty dirge,

the song of forgetting. he might not have left.
i might be able to find him, now that i remember.

i wonder what i'd wear. i might start by saying
thanks for being real. did you see when they took

the magnolia trees? does infinity echo, and what
is it like to have been there, at the beginning



"There are few birds I find more beautiful than pigeons. I still remember the first one I ever saw dead and how one day even its deadness was gone."

Keith S. Wilson is an Affrilachian Poet, Cave Canem fellow, graduate of the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, and recipient of a Bread Loaf scholarship. His work has appeared in the following journals: American Letters & Commentary, 32 Poems, Cider Press Review, Anti-, Muzzle, Mobius, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Additionally, he has had poems nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award.