Bevy of Crows

Being a woman of multiple bags, I may not have anything.

When portability really means lack of capacity and regional distance

circulates to sex. But the men enter headless and I remember myself differently.

I want this gathering of late-night commuters to have a name like nearing

the edge of  Earth before it was round. I want to play a part in all their thoughts,

a voice from the corner of the room interrupting their sleep. Opening

the front door to a little collapse where a spider has died quiet in the threshold,

I forget things I travel with on benches. Spread over cities like the clicking end of a film reel.