— After DaVinci
It barbs into the dead
doug fir
at the end of the field.
Sunders soft
rot
long
as a child’s finger
pointing towards
the bird’s red crown
now flashing now
gone.
Not metaphor
but instrument,
more saw than
flute.
It curls inside my skull
as I sleep,
the old painter leaning
so close to my body—
absorbed in coarseness
the tongue’s
blue dusk
— that I can almost taste
the wine
on his breath.
