January 8, 2014: De more

Owls in back firs, rain basaltic,

sheer, briefly truncated

after weeks, feast of Nazianzus and Basil the Great,

warriors in glimmering

dragon skin platting, Nicea’s

warriors, just gone, Arians, their perfumed

faces, nevertheless still everywhere, mostly

making hummingbird clicks

                 at the emperor’s elbow, breathing on the golden sleave.

Thus tankers slide into the Straits.

Venus is an eruption in the unlightening west.

Slowly roof frost appears,

white slabs breaking down to Shelbourne St.

and the line I’ve planted on the asphalt

with my eye for Bowker Creek

in its unringing culvert.

Everyone who thinks must shake.