the message squeezed out of the last dollop of a toothpaste tube, for that there’s the dapper melancholy of the grackle

the world of summer we learned our knowledge had faded to specks, for that there’s the black shirts and pants of the grackle

the infinite news items brought into the world at the tips of twigs, for that there’s the shadows and the reflections of the grackle

the things the shovel said (caterpillar 235 hydraulic excavator) to the very air, for that there’s the twitch and bounce of the grackle

the things your fingertips said to the insipid dreams of boundless night, for that there’s the yellow flashing eye of the grackle

the numbers made of ash seemingly all that could be brought to bear, for that there’s the nod and sudden flitting of the grackle

the reflections that moved back and forth across the water before you turned, for that there’s the mites and the death of the grackle

the motions we made in the work of days replayed like motions of an empty dance, for that there’s the pearl in the teeth of the grackle