All but 1

Latching little hooks On a disused picture antenna The fledglings broadcast in chattering yips, squawks, squabbles and whistles That sometimes dip. Like they know that 1 is missing.


Open under a seared brow, And set in thick and rolling skin, Wobbling But glimmering under a head of horns: A beest’s inky eye.

The Rage

In the rage, I cut my shape in granite skies, With horns twisted and skyward In the rage, I stand like a gnarled cathedral Wrought with hot hammers and tongs.

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