I drag the kitchen chair out, all the way out
                    to the exact middle of the field, new-mown.
And place myself there, primly.  I sit
                   tall
            back taunt, and tight, and straight.  I do not
                        slump
     beneath this wincingly blue October sky.

I am first chair among wind instruments, and
we are the symphony:   this openness, the trees round the rim
                                                  and I.

Today,
today we are performing expanse and hunger
              in a minor key.

I sit at the hub of the whirl — while
   all about me great patches of sound begin to tearout from here.
They arch and plummet like fierce storms upon the
       sun, and the air
       is pocked
by this full wall, falling.

The trees huddle and recoil from one another
       like whores on a streetcorner.   They are jarred
       every instant by the clanging cold. They clack and moan
                    in reedy tones.   Voices rust away into the wind.
My fingers howl like hounds running blind,
       nosing the wind — tracking the grass which uncoils mockingly
       into a hiss behind the wind.

A fly unzips the blue noise of the sky,
     that great tipped ocean hanging over us — a thawing yowl­ —
      a god’s great wound of wandering miseries and visions.
The sinuous emptiness drains down
       to the wood
and the forest, stained
    whispers and shakes
        like a disciple
               in a dream.
And it comes to trill the red wire in my bone.
Then pares itself away, punctually, like a soldier,
                                                                                like the moon.

Five rooks rise in a black, ragged shout
      and run upon the sky like a flag.
A hawk scream shutters the sky, then turns its back and flaps
     away.   There is something familiar in its claws.
It leaves the land so homeless.
And, off its haunches, from the far shore of paleness,
winter comes cracking its old bones across the sky.