As idlers pass us by
under the Palace of leaves
Behind a grove below the sky,
a cypress tree grows, huddled in a swarm of bees.
In branches whorled and malignant
sit vultures tamed and shivering, alighting
on red breezes, off to find
to pluck out
They hurl epithets at one another and sigh,
swallowing halos from the dome that
hangs thick and wet.
Their tonsur'd heads bob to the pulse
of a cloudless sky.