TWO FLIGHTS OF CORPSES PLANTED

Seagulls are over the falls
from the chain-link walk it's a rush of bodies
paths found radiating pond-length yellow leaves
trunks in deep-rooted coil
sending stranded radios huge Arctic signals
towns merry-go-rounded by money and dementia
gas pump nozzles left hanging mid-air
from limbs of fluorescent cobweb.

Ice makes out its own territory
in you, in the door, in the salt,
in your rampant destruction of memory
years of garlic in your retired apron
hanging next to the men's thumped grey coats
dry as potpourri in the sprained morning.
Blandness fills up the kettles
the floor and the hallways, fever child
in a bathtub of apples. Don't tell the kid
what's at the windows.

Their wings come lipping over
a full crest clipping of water
skulls that have not read road-signs
except as color shape
in short feathers, with whatever their thoughts
a hole punched through the yellow a hole
punched through the sadness
in the kitchen stereo and a can

from the path veiled in boards
new river boiling in rocks
to flock out among the seagulls
make passage in a series
of delineated clouds, whispering fire-lost
between grandmother stations.