Scat doesn’t lie.
The birds ate my blueberries.
My dog stole some carrots.
When unraveled, owl poop
reveals the mouse bones;
the structure of past nutrition
made strong in the night sky.  

Neither do poems.
There are entire months where
I sift, sniff, massage, weigh,
and reassemble the bones of other people’s poetry.
What they ate. How they change.
Tracking their traces,
holding them up to the light
to see what shadows get reflected on the wall.  

Mini-maps of entropy, intent,
and just possibly a way forward.