A LONG HOMECOMING
Twenty two black birds moving together
across the scorched grass like an unknown language
in stranger’s mouth, connected by something wholly
extraneous, incalculable. What would someone
who understands these things say, is this a dream
of distant places you crave meekly, or something
that’s already happened, long ago, and you, again,
looked somewhere else? Remember: that little boy
who, tiptoeing next to seaside binoculars,
when the eyelids on the other side lift, is still
hearing the coin fall through the stiff guts,
picturing its pirouetting while it cries click-clack.
And afterwards recalls forever only the father
saying look, look, and the lump of green iron
smelling of door handles.