Condor

A condor in the window Lilting to one side Favoring the throat not yet marked. Cain’s hand—colder Than described. A star on frosted glass. There is light beneath the crystals It powers the melting. Oasis half-waded. A waif to the roar of dusk I open all the closed doors, Remove the drafting animals. It is a runway of cornflowers. The condor’s tongue swells Until it fills his jagged mouth. Eye of a cauldron Splashing in black mud I begin the process of sinking. Come evening I am shadows. Come evening I am below it all.