Moon Phase III: Waning

A nest of paper scraps and ribbon hid among the horns-

below the canopy of overarching antlers, twisted like bramble stalks,

the sparrow builds.

patient claws clinging to the shadows, the talons of a hunter made much too small,

the plumage dappled with nakedness, the breast humbly bared,

but her hood, black as the airless night-

her hood is the old hood of death.

His horns are beautiful with nonsense. His belly laugh is an ox-bellow that breaks the night,

His mismatched eyes call like the pulse of a beacon:

"Come hither, you who reek of pain, you whose eyes blister with envy,

lustful cry of earth, snort of dark glee, all things who scream "I!" from the core of your souls:
Come hither to me."

The spirits shriek and flutter.

The sparrow cuts with iron wings.

Above, the moon draws aside to think, turning into blackness, swathed with misfortune,

the clouds are thrown over the stars:

into the old egg of blackness

the infinite mouth of the infinite serpent

the sparrow departs.