They are stacked in the memory like silver bars buried by
robbers of old; revealed when the wind blows easterly
through passionless leaves; one by one they die into the
         fecund earth.

Suddenly one breaks free and races like a strange bird
to create a beautiful pattern in the blur of its derangement.

Conversations emerge from the hole where the object has broken from;
people are overheard outside the orange public library discussing
politics; they speak so to shame passing youth of its budding desire.

And expects, any day, for the sky to become an ancient bird, a roc,
a frightening and magnificent object
         for the imagination.