The iron’s tongue clicks. A perked
Infant’s ear. It is the grey eardrum of sky
Starves our new snow, our cut black creek.
In red smokestacks, our tongues are woolen
Acrobats. Along the trackbed
The catalpa threatens war.
We are heavy again, as mosses.
The savingslight of fall boils upward. In maples,
Our pinwheels, our transgressions.
It is the starving season. I press
The rapeseed in the book of mull, sidelong;
There, it is a god.
I raise my hands like sculptures of oak.
Fractured, they are the shuck, shuck of guns,
The thin red wave of a barefoot and starving guard.