A ruckus
of ravens
disbands
over the nuisance grounds
where every trace
of us two (save
what the grave
grabs) ends up —
everything is
rental, everything
is lent, ex-
piring, the thrilling
Jag, liver-
spotted, lichened
with rust,
the dream house
passing through these
hands to ex-
ecutors, like our lease-
to-lose
allotment of carbon
moving on
as it must
(even dust
falls to dust).
We own so little
of ourselves, how
did we think to own
anything of the world?
A momentary estate —
and yet, for all that,
all things here,
even the dumpsite
and the creosote
ravens, seem this sunrise
startled into being, coined
and kenned
to newness,
in chorus with chaos,
this ruckus of birds
centrifugal
as red-shifted stars
in a cosmos
unfinished unfolding.