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Sacred Burial Ground

Once, in a thought, it seemed how everything
stood without color, either black or white
or marbled grey, were sparrows tipped in flight
then pitched to the barn by a bastard wing
as feed for that, that unthinkable thing,
that thing which hunts and haunts confounded night,
and taunts with words, good morning, impolite,
on afternoons left without anything.
And in that thought, I think, I ceased to be
a thinker, but a thoughtless totem-pole,
stacked to the measure of deformity
forced on my feathered friends if lacked a soul,
their judgment passed at trial exclusively
not by a robe, but pigeon shot and coal.

Copyright © Phillip Garcia

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