Lorca, from “Little Infinite Poem”

all their blue black feathers
swallowing up the horizon’s amber,

the throttle from their throats

over the taunting of window panes
refracting early glow
snuffing shadows that stretch,

elongate like smoke.

It’s the angry crowing from the flightless
who envy the flight of the sun.

They are unable to lift themselves
like ornaments against blue skies.

Their spurs, always ready
for the softness of eyes

where light makes its daily nest

in the curves of lenses,
in the iris that swirls, opens

like a morning glory on a vine.