I stood shin deep in warbler
many times before this,
a scrap of moon still visible
like this print out of omens.
The pricks figure in everything—
poets no longer the antennae
of the world or their acre
of white for that matter
so if I’ve shopped the same
miracle, its mile-long disclaimer,
or some brand-named bag come
alive on a tree limb, I apologize.

In the complicated shade
of the tower we’re shoveling
specimen, blurs of feather and song.
So by lunchtime, that ol’ Minus Town’s
enticing with its flirtatious bar signs,
its brawls and low frequency grunts.
I’m listening for my own blood
I pick up from somewhere behind me.
as I begin to make a pyre out of
matches, shredded napkins—
a phoenix to be snuffed out
with a shot of whatever’s cheapest.

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