It's Still Life

The Crow Did Not Answer
I.
In the market, a man with no shoes
trades a step for a story.
He says his mother was lightning
and his father a lie.
I give him a coin. He weeps. We call it even.

II.
The cactus blooms at midnight—
pale as breath in winter,
a slow exhale from the edge of something sharp.
I dream of someone trying to hug the wind.
The wind keeps the shirt.

III.
At the train station, someone left
a note on the timetable:
Stress is just the body
trying to teleport.
I write back: So is grief.

IV.
I found an old photograph in a library book—
a girl with her eyes closed,
kissing a paper boat goodbye
as if it could remember her.
The water kept the imprint. The boat did not.

V.
The crow did not answer when I asked
why we forget the most important thing.
It just flew in a perfect circle,
once, twice, then was gone.
I walked home. The wind wore my name.