Migration
This crane-heart borne
of a train.  My chest
becomes a mobile cage,
a spinning gibbet
when it traverses
a suspension
bridge. The nesting
waters below– a heaven
so cold it creaks, so
you’d think the river
had bones. And just bones,
hands without palms
from which we sop
blood or cup blood—
The seat  a red sea
I can lay lengthwise
in. Windows
model then shed
every landscape:
twin wheatfields
shipping yard of tired color
ragged clouds, graffiti
leading out of winter
woods. My eyes close
to leave the argument
like California smiling
on a map. I shift
my weight and resettle.
The ground gives up
a fetus. Train retracts
into the dark’s mouth
like a tongue. I won’t curse
in front of life tonight.