by Curt Binkley
In a cigar box I keep the heart of
a blackbird and news clippings:
when day shows its orange
tooth, when yellow jackets
commandeer the pears,
I understand urges to
in the heat.
Treasures of a thousand mornings line these hills-cannonball fragments,
fossils of soldiers, rusted tin and
cooking utensils, lost parlor
When spices don’t make it to port and
the Beaujolais comes in as vinegar
unhappy leaders confer: it is this poor show of power
(imperfect meals and, of
course, dinosaur bones)
causing chaos in the
dining wings of mansions.
I sympathize with overturned oxen and roses manacled by ribbon, women wrapped in
I can picture the latest dead
buried in hills of sand?
just as sad?left for
sons of sons