Between two nights
the brief day.
The farm is there.
And in the thicket, a snare
the hunter set for us.
Noons desert.
It still warms the stone.
Chirping in the wind,
buzz of a guitar
down the hillside.
The slow match
of withered foliage
glows against the wall.
Salt-white air.
Falls arrowheads,
the cranes migration.
In bright tree limbs
the tolling hour has faded.
Upon their clockwork
spiders lay
the veils of dead brides.
