Issue 104, Fall 1987
Blind Panorama of New
No, it isn’t the birds
covered with ash,
no, it isn’t the cries beating against the windows of the wedding,
it is the delicate creatures of the air
that body forth from fresh blood in the inextinguishable darkness.
But no, it isn’t the birds,
because the birds will soon become oxen;
they could become white rocks with the moon’s help
and they are always wounded boys
before the judges lift the cloth.