And that you hold the same one hawk each day I pass through my field
                                                                                       up. And that it
                                                                                       may choose its
                                                                                       spot so
freely, from which to scan, and, without more than the wintry beguiling
                                                                                       wingstrokes seeding
                                                                                       the fields of air,
swoop. It feeds. There is no wasteland where the dead oak
                                                                                       lives—my
                                                                                       darling—up-
start vines on its trunk, swirling in ebblight, a desert of gone-silent
                                                                                       cells—where another force is
                                                                                       gleaming—tardy—
waning—summer or winter no longer
                                                                                       truths, no prime, no
                                                                                       year, no day where sun
                                                                                       exists—
just a still-being-here in this small apparently silent multitudinous world of
                                                                                       infinite yearning and
                                                                                       killing and
sprouting—even now at the very start of the season—lengthening, in-
                                                                                       visible in its
                                                                                       cracking open of
pod—and push—like the first time we saw each other you and I—
                                                                                       impatient immediately …
Blackness is the telephone wire—blackness the blissless instant-
                                                                                       communication,
the twittering poverty killing behind and beneath and deep at the core of
                                                                                       each screen, end-
                                                                                       less, someone breaking someone’s
fingers just now—hear their laughter—everyone in their prison—there in their human
                                                                                       heart which
                                                                                       they cannot
                                                                                       for all the parting of flesh with
                                                                                       cement-sluiced rubber
hose—and even the axe to the heart—reach—the fantasy of independence—es-
                                                                                       cape. It wants them. It wants them to
                                                                                       fly inside it. Fly it screams
                                                                                       taser in
                                                                                       hand. Prison is never
                                                                                       going to be