Bee sounds manipulated by fern shadow
will articulate our final loss
in a song about winter and kites.
There will be no breezes.
What look like cave drawings
on the walls of our mother’s womb
will be discovered by airport security
as we try to escape America.
If there is some play of leaves
against a cloudy background, or if
there’s wind, its width will animate
the stars and torn and towel-like
set Orion’s belt to snapping.
The lost paw of the delirious hound
will bob in a pond water
flustered by bee breath and thunder.
Men will curl and fleck themselves
against the bones of sacred owls,
and other men, who watch them,
speak against idea, against the thought
of wings and who, if anyone,
invented them. Later at the courthouse,
sunrise like a box of blood. The light
acquitting one and killing others.