aidan carr

You are the arc of a foreign coin / the hair of the foals or the colts, anonymous new doors of monasteries / My collection of holy emblems will soon become a tiny field / Or the arrival of stagecoaches from hungry or angel-heavy nights / That the serpent was vanquished /

and not merely reminded of that pattern made invisible by a surge of precepts / acknowledgement of these voids, as they appear so insistently a constituent of the shade upon the land / the blues from the window of a street-club as it crowns / Maps read by kerosene lamps /

I tell myself they are the tropical clay in the mischief-paws of the bebop game / A thick arrow, Sir / There is more than one song about the abattoir, and I have heard them both / Because we are catalogs of the roughness committed against us / The microphones of a place /

The ornaments of a table at the Lobster Hut in Plymouth / The steel sword of Captain Rumsey hangs in the Town Hall, above the trellises / spectating the many cliff swallows, ignoring waypoints belonging to maps of others, when possible / Panfish wild red belly, even /