Moon-numbed Fall is running through
shades of rock, rain and stick,
dirt stained machine-leaf churches.
 
Mother is in the apple-rug
kitchen knifing a potato;
long half-circles taunt hangings,
my bird face and painted skin.
 
Your eyes are a chalk and charcoal
sketch on the aluminum-mud
face of war, a decaying plaster,
damning harm of lesser men.
 
Where will you come home to?
Where will your sleep not be
a cannibal soup cobalt burning?
 
The mountain is a dragging dog,
crow quilted and dumb,
pine-tone insect skewing.
I have kept your rooster hands
here in a brass box, wrapped
in a Sunday newspaper and white string.