down here on the ground


A red-tailed hawk shows white beneath,
sloping high in the cobalt
blue – pivoting afloat
on air – freewheeling in the teeth

of chilly blows (from Canada).
Down here on the ground
clay thins to the grind,
shatters like ice – power’s arcana

plates a hard face on the mirror,
the barrel.  His scapegoat
brands our feet by rote,
his toothy mustache splinters the car.

In the cosmogram from Amen Corner
another bird hums
through dusty spokes – drums
emerald beryl-wings across your

grave circumference, Columbia.
Your adamant cheer, Mother –
whose fleet flute-font rings here,
rings there, rings over yonder... ah,

brave wings!  Braiding Ocean River
with an Esperanto-Roma
hums into the matrix – shiver

these bony timbers onto sparkling
shores!  Nested in Galilee,
a grafted refugee
on new-found land... thrush, darkling.


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