By Rudy Shackelford
Wingbones shattered—feathersScattered over the continent—The four unbroken animal limbs beatingA shadow-wind to keep aloft:
If there are churchesThis is where a church might be,A theatre if there are theatres, orA 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 grassWithin the field.
As the scroll unrolls, scalesRipple by the glass like fishesFlashing gaseous tails,
This dice-white Princess desk phoneIs a ghost, wearing a small bellAbout its throat.
Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,That wide wet kisser weSmacked on to justify a pipe.
Tenderest pendulum, Your slender stem is Tremulous as it enters The minute’s fundamental;