Tonight the trees are paper
nuns leaning over fox bones.
And you’re still here.
Near the railroad cars.
Near the shallow hillside.
Your hands just as thin as they always were.
Give me your glass-eyed stare, Father —
ask me if these stars have any use at all.
Tonight, we are just as designed for flight
as a rhythm of sparrows, our wings severed
in the dustlight. Listen:
your nest is bleeding.
Why does your child mistake the chapel
for a mound of bones, dark as it is?
Nothing moves except the birds. And the birds,
so silent – I doubt
they are even here.