MONT BIRD (in the body of a betting ticket)
You would be mine when we would sit by here,
deciding in, deciding then what comes of words,
for he who sleeps with wounds undressed, for else awake for having wounded.
Mont Bird enough in images I know.
Beyond the city mouth’s bicuspid track,
by leaps and trios of steps, amongst the lesser birds,
faithful to men, who against God haven’t yet rebelled.
The shrill of dry glass cleant.
Much is made of that male swan come forward, chest outlet.
The stomach of the near, that I have.
Even the largest meals are fitted in the palm, rolled over by the tongue, and gathered in the small of the stomach.
While up the clock and Leda’s center pivot.
Smoked and gassed and watered by a flurry docking.
For that soft and pale and nameless thing,
I hear the morning of an adult spring,
which only seems to come anew and sound the same,
amongst the lesser birds, the saved and the baptismal,
able to march and handle routes that snake, with danger until death before them.
Danger until death before me,
in my defens God me defend.