Flock
by Jay Thomas
evening’s thought-
flags blow by
him, nostalgic, proper
drags in unraveling
in his throat—sheets
brush against his
pillow, he blushes
at the smell of leftover
smoke, wants to tear
through the air, he
can’t, he knows
his dreams, the salt
of them burning
his lungs, his letters
lost to bird-wing
smiles and juries
of broken teeth
