by Mark Swanson
|Here, starlings sing for their death
(and we give it to them).
We stoke our sun to burn bright
but clouds hang like rotting linen.There are no bones―nothing
that stands up and says “old,” but
it’s beginning to look like home:
cottonwoods, honey locust,
the brassy red light of the west
on fire in the eyes of a wintered witch
mawing planters root.Horse bellows have left
for Harleys and car alarms.
Trees and tall buildings prod
the red trails of dusk to move west
as time hammers the day shut
with a rusty iron nail.
Walking through the old brick