of starlings ride drafts
with the speckled
dust of dead
suns on their backs
down to muddy earth
to needle for worms
among crumpled
leaves and
cigarette packs—
so, feather under feather
or shingle over shingle,
do I extend
those same acts
to which I'd attended yesterday.
Life dovetails
this way—
sprints of elation
commingle
with creeping death,
torpor with
the sun's caress;
I cannot hurry,
and I cannot rest.
