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On The Day Of Crane Numbering
none ton dun bird
jumps aloft to that
airy rectory in
these headlights: a weirding lamp
the moon clips shut
they are seeping towards us in one swept purl
flapping over burr
til a frost circulates
and not a waltz of flailed bones
torched to exoticism
what youth or sad rind of a bird
blasphemed, to expire
this union
what roads
what kismet
how much meat is there and how much time
their husks
splayed like your divining
some life indeed keeps
in clay red skulls
copulations to extend
horn an opus, crying for cirrus
then
ossify
and glow
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