Neighing in the stables. And the man
mouths the words of the dead like an aspiring patriot.
Still, he angles a finger towards a cloud
and writes thirst. Then something
shuts him in a room with a candle.
Says, stay. Muscles picking at the lock
of the spirit. The summer day
long and haughty from that window-stare. Birds
and our insufficient names for birds. Swallow.
Cardinal. Direction. Throat. Quail.
The tongue conceiving flight.
Alexandra mucking the stalls, polishing
the bit. Desperately he invokes the Mother
for a long winter, for nights, till night comes.
I know him and slide a matchbook under the door.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord