(This is why--)
on and on, the bone and glow of stars
above St Paul at summer’s end,
restlessly among the birds that bend
the trap lines (the electricity, the cars)
the dark sky, moist and black,
where satellites pulse and unbranch
their feathers (a light in the branches).
a metaphor for hearts: this city, the lack
and the spilling over, the strangers, the oil,
the saints, the blades laid open above the sky,
the tree heads broken beneath the soil,
and on and on, and on and on, these moonwhite eyes.
(--why writers write, for what are symbols
but dead birds, branches tying down the sky?)
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