Rudy Shackelford

Wingbones shattered—feathers
Scattered over the continent—
The four unbroken animal limbs beating
A shadow-wind to keep aloft:

If there are churches
This is where a church might be,
A theatre if there are theatres, or
A store.

“My mother lit me (father was her match)
And set me in a draught to catch my breath.

I am a field.
I am a blade of grass
Within the field.

As the scroll unrolls, scales
Ripple by the glass like fishes
Flashing gaseous tails,

This dice-white Princess desk phone
Is a ghost, wearing a small bell
About its throat.

Tenderest pendulum,
     Your slender stem is
          Tremulous as it enters
               The minute’s fundamental;

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,
That wide wet kisser we
Smacked on to justify a pipe.