of what he’s given
ascend from his palm into icy air
up high they look like blotted words
then black specks in January’s sunset
they start to follow each other–
like looping crows
he tries to avoid what’s cast–
all his convictions, worn in the sky–
but they’re outside every window
everywhere he goes
and as he starts to hear the wings,
there’s no more forward motion
their pattern starts to lull him,
crooks his head toward the glass
his eyes orbitting the endless circle,
the flashing chain.
His heart is on the plate.
The ring descends to pick apart who he is.