a dead bird sleeps by the ocean

blanket of sand over entrails

bone and feather

dreams decomposing

i wonder if it means anything

i don’t believe in omens

but maybe i should

like old women and tea leaves

scraping a dark future

from the bottom of a cup

maybe i am marked for death

like the bird by the ocean

sand will be my cradle coffin

let the waves be a lullaby

i imagine some dog finding

my body decades later

carrying my collarbone to his master

for beaming praise

good boy! good hunter!

oh well

there are worse ways to end

than being a solid prize

in the mouth of something 

still biting 

still alive