It’s hard to imagine a shrewder therapist
then the one you sent us:
This Virtuous Vulture
perching proud on every shoulder,
counseling light-seeking eyes
to endarken,
get glassy black enough
to achieve in real life
what marbles in the sockets
of trophy animals
only dream of:
being still enough to stalk
the prey of simple sentience—
fiercely forever enough
to stare down
the carnivorous gaze of time.
Neck-snapping guru
hunching on each restless ledge,
keep nudging us
to gnaw right down
to the shining
boneless
absence
at the core of everyone
and everything.
