THE END OF FLIGHT
1.
What sort of madness what
sort of fatigue brings this
tree's bough to the ground the
handful of nails out of my
pocket the last light from
the sky as I turn back towards
the house the dead
eagle fresh in memory,
in the soil I just buried it in
its head gone (crows) it
fell from the tree where
it had been hung up a
few days growing in smell
and losing feathers
This means good luck I
tell the hedge I toss
the leftover nails into
this means I ought to
build more complex structures
just a playhouse today for
two daughters running shout
this means build I think
the architectures of dream the
streaming columns rooms of
gold with poetry walls
all jade and gleaming and
dark with night and
wanting the firey posts
shining lintel and
above this I'll hang a
flaming bird and its
eternal flight will take
whatever I build
with it into the sky
behind the sky
falling feathers and
a spiral through the boughs
2.
I'm not quite sure
why the bottom of my foot hurts
I'm not quite sure
where I am when I say
here I am
clover overtaking the back yard
a faint desire to eat fresh berries
to wing my way towards
some other undreamt of work
weather eye open
hammer and some boards
busy in my father's chest
a canoe in the cloud maybe
I reach the house after many years
it is unbuilt in memory and
for sale all this time