this morning i watched the sparrows burn
as they took their place on the wires.
a coven of black eyes and crippled wings,
speaking in the same kerosene as a sleepless dawn.
and in the lurch of finite definition,
the first to be descended whimpers from the neck.
tarnished feathers and grated bones
hold back the stomach tissue;
wrought with ribs like broken chapel spires,
it sings the last song well,