the radio's blue nowadays, blue
with the smell of plastic and copper
and breaking crowfeathers in atticnests
breakbreak, like painted waves on skin
and open lips on sinew and white
meat-splintered-with-bones
break
the clouds - a waterline across the chimney-sweep of the black-cloud sunset. Yesterday, I pulled the towel edges out from clotheslines, imagined wood-like-bone holding the frame and prairies, skulls of buffalo herded over salted grass waves
break
bones-with-splintered-meat
red from the sunset dust and open
to the wind and broken stutters
of the blue radio, perched on a mustang
and clinging to the hood like a
bleached-out crow.
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