Chicken bones indicate safety,
And bird feathers lead the way.
Crossed twigs point to the door key.
Don't stop at train tracks to pray.
Travel the back-roads to find me,
Hide from the buzzards by the bay,
Water bottles and dirt heaps
Are my signature doorways.
While there are plenty of paths to take,
And multiple mitakes to make,
You just have to edge along the lake.
Your sight will fool you, trash tied to trees.
Don't bother with garbage can, they're no use to us three.
Each bit of litter is a symbol from me to you toward me.
Remember the cigar butts,
The spray-painted tree trunks,
A pair of old sneakers hanging from power hubs.
A left at the crack house,
A right by the playground,
Straight on through the speckled grouse:
I'm ready to teach you, from under my bridge.
"Ugh, I'm so tired of finding trash on our trail. What the hell are the kids doing with these piles of water bottles filled with dirt-- is that a fucking condom full of leaves hanging on that tree?
I can't wait until the city demolishes these woods and build a trail so we don't have to see any more of these."
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