An old man raving picks up sticks, vitally erased Under mazy roughness of his thumb, except where A counter-coalescence of the grain Turbulently surrounds a knot of blood. 5 Out of fisted clouds, white And distant as his stiff bride Coiling in her grave, a falcon Eyes the wormy meadow and descends. No arm, no mind controls 10 The powerful muscle, falling to a branch Heavy apples mellow to a bow Aimed at an aimless sky. Red memories of the man disperse In meditation like an arrow's throw; 15 The turning falcon's shaft Falls in its desire.
From the collection "Burning Byzantium"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.