In this unveiling: a rain-stabbed
blackbird’s obsidian sigh rises
from meat-fragrant slits
in our speech patterns,
where a way of seeing home,
smeared on walls with elbow blood,
is also a way of nozzling
bird caw to thieved land,
or scissoring fog-lobed night
into crescent moons,
while a bell’s deoxygenated moan,
weeping for its lost reflection,
is hauled away on a horse-drawn hearse.
(Sherwin Bitsui)