A heron splits the night
with razor feathers that
Lap and tear into
Damp atmosphere.
It slashes onward
without a face,
and there are
Indeterminate
Flourishes of
Abstraction across
Its path.
Artifices collide as
Cold and warm fronts
Eddying and whipping
in frigid vortexes,
Famished for humanity,
Vacuuming up our words
Suspended in pregnant air,
X’s and dipthongs vibrating,
Ampersands saltando,
Commas and hyphens, col legno;
and a waterfall of information
Plucked like a silver string.
It dances in place, sinew
Wound tight to stone pegs
and a liquid neck.
It does not paint secrecy with
Words; it fastens quick
While fascinating. It
Lows a faint cry,
Begging for defibrillation:
Victor Frankenstein’s
Monster, displaced from
Alpine majesty, but
Remaining ensconced in
Those same books and
Grandiose arguments.
