She waits for me in the garden
without reproach
though darkness gathers
in the tops of the coconut palms
as words are sawn off;
arrested conversations
sway in the wind.
Holding a fistful of fish
she prays to the corporeal
cockatiel, the bishops
and cardinals of dance halls,
theatres, and tambourines.
Night approaches –
birds fall from the sky
feathers and skeletons
beaks and claws,
a currency of flight
and no escape.
Rusty Truck 