Interruption of a 40-Day Wake
A collars turn against the dust.
A raven’s fist raised against the rain:
pecking after infertile earth,
biting at 12 new-mounded graves.
Innocent symbols of death eating at dirty fields tuned dry.
For 40 years, he swore, only to die of drought.
Because every bird goes home
walking with an old limp
to those windows always shuttered for never
to a small red flower of the end.
Another good year Stan—
face to the sky while you wonder what it means to wander fro
on the other side of Cain.