Thanksgiving

Migrating, they beat dirges out of the air with their wings.  They keep their mouths shut.

Borrow me a dotted line.  Rosin, palms, coconut husks, hurricane soughoff.

Pine needles actually needles, or larger, and that's where I fall.  It's night.  Someone's hands shape white scars in the air and someone else's hand has a hole in it where a brazed star is supposed to be.  I'm bleeding as soon as I move, thank god.  I rain over them and they think it's the sky.