Finches, GA 27

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Finches, GA 27

Even now, even here, chirrups 

poke peepholes through the thick swath

 

of siren that wraps the raw wound

of the world. Starlight arrives at the scene


only in pin-pricks, eternity’s IV

drip, drip, dripping—still


a ripping thirst, but enough

to croak out the word Alive


till the surgeon arrives. It’s here,

when our vehicles have ground


to a halt or wrapped themselves

like a snap bracelet around


a telephone pole, that from

the shattered window of all we know


unspools a treble staff

on which the notes arrange 


themselves, unstanchable melody

seeping through the white 


noise of interstate that's shaping up 

to be our place of residence a while yet.

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