Mysterious motor in the rooster's throat.
The sun, rising over the horizon, blinks,
twists the ignition, installs itself into every
screaming shadow; the rooster waits in
any weather, beardless, could hold lambs
on its shoulders, nothing able to crush its
projection, this platform of crystal morning,
& like a dam breaking, at first, a soft silence
reflects the storm to come, like a flower
floating in the wind, comes the rooster's
great crowing--atomic lungs, breath
splitting dust--like an epochial alarm clock
for someone, deposited throughout the
vibrating verisimilitude of the land: Living
wax works coming to life, feeling the rooster's
howl lending its song to the wolves in one's
nerve-ends.
