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.


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