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.
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