for Ron Winkler
this is the village, and this the master
knacker’s dwelling, a wisp of smoke
snaking skyward from the roof.
the empty hides on the walls. a basket
of pups, their eyes still sutured
by blindness, taking their first sniff
of the world. it is early, cartographers and land
surveyors in the towns are still abed.
that well in the garden brims with thirst.
apolda, thuringia: the dead cow
at the edge of the field is a grounded balloon,
a while yet. he strides out under the small
coin of the stars. and at his side
the two black blades keep slicing through the fields.