Columbia

First day
of the second month
of the third year.

Aligned:
seven swans' migration
& backwing to earth nest.

Crowd's collective eye stings

from the sun of eighty-six
from the sun of now;

waiting, wild for
its flock to alight.

A fire.
         Moon's dark regard.

Toward neither space
nor sky
seven swans glide on
star surface,
bury bitter beak in white wing

and never return.