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The ruins of a bird's nest
cotton from cigarettes, crumpled straw
birth's viscera, and the leaf-stems
of sacrificial trees
our efforts

You can find me on a floating porch
next to the highway where the creatures flee
in rubbered steel, to their deranged holidays
I'm not waiting for flesh on flesh
only to be removed from the human circuit for a moment
only for the animal twilight

An aborted hand, a ghostly unfinished ribcage,
small enough to cover only three frozen knuckles
on the back of my wishing right hand
to carry all the vacancies to empty plenitude

We are the gnashing grain
in the glades by the side of the tar there is still room for us
to stand and wait leering in whistle grass
trunks groan, artificial light goes down to the harbor
to be reborn in reflection

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