Even the sparrow’s song must
be bought by crumbs;
the restoration of grace,
and vanishing fear, taking on the form
of a full belly,
piping the food downward.
The neck stretches, the meal begins,
each hand of satisfaction
the infinite cruelty:
the branches voicing ruin, intestines
and shit, splattering in tune.
OUR GEOGRAPHIES, POEMS VOL.2, 126 pages, many never posted
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