Window
lying in the thistle
eye that never closes

burnt chimney
rising above the goldenrod
like Christ blessing the children

iron hinge
in the ashes
wings that fell to earth

broken teeth of the cemetery fence
a sacred harp
rusting

shadows
of the mournful cypress
house I was born in.

2.

The sky gives up
goes dark

willows
in their poorcoats

weep quietly by the stream
the maples

homeless
their kingdom of leaves

fallen in ruins
three crows

black prophets
lift up from the dirt road ahead

black pods of the catalpa
hanging

like our other lives
—stillborn.