The eagles won. The egrets wandered away. The end of windows won. The inside of cells won. The funerals won. The victory was forever. There were only nights. There was only outside. The windows ended. Forever ended. Victory ended. There, among the entrails of egrets, the funerals all won. The end of egrets won. The end of eggs won. The water was wounded. The wars won. The walls won. The cars won. One toy eagle won. Then, there were only toy eagles.
Placed by larger pronouns, wooden-eyed to both weather and cell, tuned to a distant canyon’s cult, culled into chorus through the hymn’s most polar version, the present wiring offers only a faint constellation, numbly collated from warring clicks.
Hawks glide above other hawks to kill escaping sky, a faraway star burning their faces.
The elk always drinking from a painted-on pond not the fox whose front legs never touch the ground.
The sky is always threatened. The ground hurts. I can still see the lake in a frog.