dark enough to see stars

for smm

on the windowsill, look. a blackbird.
even while writhing he wants the worm.

over there, hobbling a cadence across
the road, a crow. such are the pitfalls

that coax this kind of dalliance, doomed
or squandered, trilling a hair’s width

from bullets weaving branches. downed
power lines like hissing cobras charmed

high enough to cleave Corvus,
its four tremolo stars, tongues split

in Canaan. come morning, light.
a little at first, bashful, ornamental

the sound of a bell as it leaves the bell.
it isn’t long before the dock is brimming.

an ark takes up two spaces too many
but nobody on board can hear

the neighbors grousing outside, sonatas
& choirs & harmony filling the ship’s guts

with song. the black has been stripped
off the blackbird, a white ribbon tied

to the crow’s ankle. pared & paired
they snarl in each other’s warmth

& flutter. one’s tiny beak pushed
under the other’s wing, one’s talon

heel resting on the other’s face.
no one can be careful all the time.

waiting for the flood when, suddenly, rain.
sky dilated. losing luster. once the sun sinks

into the Hudson, the city throws its light
under your hair. New York is a Godless

town but when you pull me through
lower Manhattan your heels grind

gravel from parkways & crosswalks
where roses & rhododendrons bloom

in the rubble. the streets simply peeled
apart & there you were. helixing.

the trees above you thriving blacker
than their shadows. this ferocity,

feline. a fever less lonely, you heat
trains & churches & cheap hotel

sheets, travelers trudging the brick
cold without music or stars. did you

know the gingko tree loses all its leaves
the same day? one night bare, shivering

like the moon on a lake. then, host
to hundreds of talons & claws.

crisp & cosmic, a perfect day to crumple
& stretch over the dead. to limit ourselves

to life. let rouge whipped by wind
be the proof. your terrene hands

untangleable. your mane a black wave
cataclysm. freckles, buckshot

that skimmed the birds. music
isn’t music until it is heard. listen

as sinners sing apples off the branches.
dusk landing like glissando, fire shed

& sent last century, lingering
light years for your arrival.

how could a torch song survive
a voyage like that       do you see it

the sky dark like the ocean
which is dark like the sky.

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