This is not Wallace Stevens’ blackbird,
nor Patchen’s, nor Paul McCartney’s,
just a rook lying dead in the snow.
The arc of its life, which is decay,
and its fall, have been so gentle,
so closed, that what remains is perfect.
Inky gloves raise what is left,
bones white as a fine china cup,
hollow bones, impossibly thin, chambered
to soar, their desperate purpose
even now splayed for flight,
away from cold, hellish ground.
No lines of verse can rouse to life
its wild eye, its horny claw,
the feathers intricate as fingerprints,
no nail fix God’s masterwork
to that wall where it belongs, in the sky,
immortal as all blameless things.
nor Patchen’s, nor Paul McCartney’s,
just a rook lying dead in the snow.
The arc of its life, which is decay,
and its fall, have been so gentle,
so closed, that what remains is perfect.
Inky gloves raise what is left,
bones white as a fine china cup,
hollow bones, impossibly thin, chambered
to soar, their desperate purpose
even now splayed for flight,
away from cold, hellish ground.
No lines of verse can rouse to life
its wild eye, its horny claw,
the feathers intricate as fingerprints,
no nail fix God’s masterwork
to that wall where it belongs, in the sky,
immortal as all blameless things.