Thanksgiving

Finally, my own menagerie.

I hadn't seen a crow or duck
since that happiness,
the most fleeting beam of
that great bloomer of a sun
blew cooly into hibernation

The world wars itself
the hostility, like all things
is predictable.

The crate-paper Indian.
His rotting.
The birds expressing
interest.

Please
Lead me like a new dancer
to an Eden where we can destroy one another.