Blue Clocked Sun by Michael Ladanyi
for Vincent and the other dead
Vincent, you’ve said this skin is a death,
a bark storm bone-glue voodoo.
Would you fly against bone cratered moon,
away from field, crow, spider and poetry?
Would you sleep in turtle seas flight,
in finch shattered blue-clucked sun?
If it is a drowning crime to conceal
bird and blood, a crippled child
beneath crutching brick mortar,
would you reverse the burning mask,
paper mouthed black birds swimming
red to migraine-paint electric eyes?
And how would we fly? Naked and eating
green apple words on chipped horse sculptures,
riding thumb altered conversions of death?
Dangle-limbed through corpse orchards,
on glass edges of dancing dead night?
Then, I will fly, Vincent, as bird rain,
and remove the bloody cotton from your eyes.