antonius-raka

On a day so still you might think
that saying wind out loud
could start a crack the equinox
would ooze golden from,
I found a bolt on Corn Hill Road,

and weighed it in my hand,
feeling its otherworldly cold,
as though it had dropped
from the undercarriage of a cloud,

and listened to the nuthatch
telegraph in bushes whose maroon haze
signified their readiness
to begin again, a few natural egg cups
woven in them here and there,
abandoned but waiting.

Thick as my thumb and longer
than any teacup-sized warbler’s nest
is deep, that heavy-duty piece
had an octagonal head on it

larger than any resting place
a hummingbird might bind
to the merest knuckle
of an apple tree, a steel bolt shaken
to unthreading, and fallen.

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