Tuesday, February 16, 2016

SPARRING

The sun—in its deathly serious
mood, rises 
still

more slowly—
a whitecrimson maw,

now chewing 
the ice-
blue 

skin from the 
sky as it wanders, keeping 

even lower—
to those lank
and snow-

limp ranks 
of old treetops
below—where

three rawboned finches 

dart and argue, 
ravenous—over 
this one 

particular 
cracked and hollow—
hull 

of yesterday's 
bread.

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