The shotgun echo of a coot.
The backfire of chopping October wood.
Who shot who in the city,
the braille of bullet holes in concrete
and the ratatatat.
Rats in the cratch
scamper, tick tock
brick around the clockwork
heartbeat
knocks at the diminishing light.
Hear the shock hollows where hearts once were.
Were those our cave paintings that flicker in
the candlelight of this evening?
Hollow willow, warm ochre
heron hues,
when open wings are the ribcage glue
for what is missing in the dark.