Instead of passing between worlds,
As in the good old days, coyotes now
Pass between women, rabbits,
Pieces of bacon, paper towels,
Cabbage leaves, pine needles, pages
Of books they cannot read,
Slanted eyes of angels,
Strands of fire and fog
And their own destinations.
The guy who used to play jazz standards to them
In the middle of nowhere, between
Withered blades of grass, is lying below,
Pockets full of greasy coins and crumpled bills
Of questionable origin.

{from the comments on nails}


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