Him. Did it to himself, piecemeal plaintiff
bitten blue, starved by the marching. Big lungs.
Took a hatchet to hope, one swing, sure, swift
endless blue. A ladder breaks with the rungs.
Him. Perfect in that one memory. One
out of how many? Too many! They slide,
oh so very, very, many. Are done.
Church bell silent. Blue sky in which to hide.
Him. Fossil pattern, pictured art, one soul
high sat on hawks head, jungle red, to bed
a long list left behind, grapes in a bowl
pitted cheeks of power, grab, beg, long said
what was to be said. In high windows, him.
'In high windows' is all. Now they can sing.