ragged and perched in a cedar tree
feathered in charcoal and ink,
beak salivating a teetering
waltz across some silvery branch.
See the precipice, Sylvia?
There are no ovens here, Ted,
and all I've ever had for paper
are the unravelings of wasps' nests.
I gather up the flight in my fist
praying with a stone on the
tongue and wait, weighted, because
at certain elevation, rocks
have developed a technique
of altaring themselves, ready
for whatever sacrifice is offered.
Ted Hughs pepples the sacred piles
of uplifted rubble and lichen.
If he turned his back I might pluck
a pin feather for writing, or
perhaps for leaping as the crow flies.