The jury of crows will sit like this for days,
Laddering the eucalyptus with a thick score of notes,
Finally falling on one of their number.
Judged, or sacrificed, the dead are left for dead:
Bones bleaching in a leaf-choked gutter.
For now, the breeze is a slow conductor
Of the long, flayed strokes of Don Giovanni.
The wash of autumn reds over the roof. Slow,
And windows de-glaze into silhouette
Torsos. Children are called back to corridors of light.
Doors open yellow
Against the fade. They shut.
Meanwhile, bodies rest, as they must.
And the blind speak of visions
Which we ignore.
Where are the whores in white?
Toeing home like cranes
In your stained satin heels.
Yesterday's lipstick on your bake-sale smiles.
Dear ones. Pearls of great price—as if it mattered.
As if you meant to be two women, low,
flat on the horizon. Come and be gentian. Emerald.
Any color in light.
I have debts to repay, and ready money
(of my own minting). Something creamy
Bleeding across the tongue…