Eikha
My dusty, dimly waking wings
are drying into crystalline cutters,
caps to my clicking legs, long
and adamant. I aim them out about
myself and the ginkgo leaves
sheltering ends of the world,
if you will, in folded-up red
and swanky, darkening spots
like tears in the iris of my mind:
the resonant joints I am tuning
to wind and to spring will drown out
the dutiful unconscious march
to the bed of the first of my sleep,
until my spots are darkwhite as ash.