My barbarous Sun
blurted out something like light
the sightless corrupter
making markers of each piece of
What bad work we do
we do in time
Some days ago the rapist drakes
gathered at the very point
to splinter the fine tracery of flight
and for this you hated god to silence
with interrogative jewels
Today I cling to father
by his Freudian slip
listening and not listening
and I want to rest
a cupped hand
behind his head
clean, steelblue air cradling:
post natal motives
and unwritten letters and the great dark
of the near disasters
Our tenderness:
Who trembles there, shifting
from each branch
eyes open and frayed
Scratched pictures fell
from pocket holes
to be dispersed as common signs
Let me tell you
there is no sacramental trail here
and so, we're clearing our woodland throat
for our blackbirded song
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