Silver trinkets fill the sky with twisting clicks,
around and around they go, until
I brush them aside, fingers, feathers, talons,
they are all the same.
Here we have a lost comparison of words, a lost
bowl of oats tossed up to midnight.
The back is all white. All black.
It is a spectacular spread for human eyes-
perfect orbit, moist pulps of eyes
count the bricks in walls over and over
because it stands, still, built
and waits for the day it cherishes the ground.