All these birds. Darkness. All these birds. A glass
of water. Cool, clear water. Birds.
The victor, yes. The spoils. No words
for visions or for climbing down at last
and no words for the look astride your face.
The spoiling water. All these birds.
My name an apple split in thirds,
inverted, honeycombed. A deepening bass
from everywhere and nowhere in a roar
is ringing through and through the world’s
penumbra. Nobody will touch the birds
and now the stag, the badger and the boar,
heron and goat, mouths open wide approach
the pool where blood and sex and, yes, the birds
undo and do, undo and welcome us inside.