January twenty eleven – this
sky of yours and of the cold months seems
to inebriate the birds and spread out
at length. The slow light of the dead
pool hands its face back to us
at each of your tired corners and
wounded angles, in which I still find
myself gathering the residues of
a fabulous age. Your castaways
float on the surface of these acid
gardens of shadows, shadows sharpening
their beaks on tombstones, distractedly preying:
gaze that enjoys the abandonment
under the wing of late afternoon.