Talon to talon, the henhouse sinks.
Lest the atoll lesson you, nestle you,
token unknowns lay slain in heat—
the hawk, a husk, the swan, a swathe.
Telltale wheat, at least, enlists an ask
we hustle to instill. Keen to kneel
within thistles, we tunnel shale
into oilwells, into noise, into silt
lean-tos. I was a hailstone, nautilus,
I was a netless heist. No illusion,
no keyhole; only an easel at stake.
Yet, I outstay the swallowtails. I take.
I shall not atone. Lieutenant to that tenet,
I lathe the lake—leonine, alone.