On the Duties of Being Carbon
Stephen Pyle
Up above a crow afraid to land,
Who in dying circles grassless heavens
Where cumulus wets stones ever trusted.
Her muttered caw heard, and talons
Flexing, her ceaseless wheeling over
stones that wait, grass, and sprig hawthorn.
Thin branch elect, to bear the weight,
on the stroke of the plummet, crow made fist,
in acceleration, balled.
For a moment
To thorn and crow both rewarded
Exhilaration, to thorn surprise and
Crow the expiration, and wash
of sea waves brine green and curling,
clacking stones to a primal rhythm,
Known to birds and boys who, in
Hypodermal waiting lines faint, or to those doubled
Over a ship’s rail, one prayed and promised to.