John Davis
Parliament of Rooks
Here is the how the why the when the need
of now, the kaah of rooks that slide the air
glide the air and they all weathered, fluffed out
lacking feathers at the base of their bills.
So grayish-white the skin, thin, old dog look
or better yet a boy who’s been eating
powdered doughnuts, smacked his lips, tongued the sweet
punch of sugar, better that than canned spam.
But here the how the day is now when rooks
escort your soul to heaven. Eleventh
hour. Hear them kaah the flatten tone of crows.
They fan their tails and bows with every kaah.
Talkative rockers is what they are. Hear
metallic tones. Listen. Here is now.
Resurrection Body
Here is the hollow where the coyote
howled where she nipped the wind
licked her paws her jaw
her teeth that gnawed
on flesh of a fawn
Here the bird music the blood
in the heart that urges feathers
Here the nettle sting the air
that polishes air and hordes the sunset
Here the home that houses rain
Here under the full worm moon
where humility has the room
for a den the leaves lend light
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