granted for you in stone & out

where sand is gravity
a baltimore
oriole
reminds me in number
that it is the birds, that limn each
line of poetry
further away- husking the
silk, and refining the poor,
out
of their mouths gold is dropping, and the
secret bubble is (a cupboard that is wrinkled blued
as a gun, and draining)
busting in side of the
wind, the last carriage of meaning
rests on each (remember the shopping cart of
books and the distant man...pointing at the rain)
wave (the riddle)a sort of killing, a fin
descending, the trophy of life,
an elaborate thing to say, (in gesture and gray)
I rest
when the
clock strikes ten
and cement
the dour corners
down, and
look, I see the end the end that is not
coming, what (posit, each number thoughtfully,
and empty to the night, the
other name for red, so cool)
gratitude we will
have- everyone (green and through----->)(yellow)
looking back, remembering the
possibility of extinction.