Of the Bird of the Holy Calling
Over this harrowing landscape, a pulley of carnage rescues
the few shuddering mulberry breasts & a corn rotten crow
who grew up wanting to be an egret.
& still the burden of scorched earth, of fires and shelling
means a crown is descended somewhere, down to the planet,
maybe in a city or movie theater, and alighted, as ordained
on some idiot’s head. Because only the clear eye of a swamp bird
can shudder out the seed of our High Holy Lord, this war
is a crescent on the great belt buckle in the sky. Rear up
to the truckers, for they humped those bombs all they out
of Nebraska or what other state did not cry when she was
born. So we go on, and the film has us learn Typhoon depths
& links of tears fed into processors. The crow makes us mealy
mouthed about the war, while the god makes us love it.