Answer

 Between two nights
the brief day.

The farm is there.

And in the thicket, a snare
the hunter set for us.


Noon’s desert.

It still warms the stone.

Chirping in the wind,
buzz of a guitar
down the hillside.


The slow match
of withered foliage
glows against the wall.

Salt-white air.

Fall’s arrowheads,
the crane’s migration.


In bright tree limbs
the tolling hour has faded.

Upon their clockwork
spiders lay
the veils of dead brides.

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