64

Their probe has been thorough—
Through the bowel and beyond for bile—
Pitch-smeared feces in the dregs of sewers—

Searching for the blackened breach
From which to fire in secrecy,
Suddenly in certainty at the perfect.

The sky is paper—a single ply;
Flat's the ink-spot—a bird
Turns—the whole sky.


© Dan Goorevitch