Migration Station

Sky dirt
the machines branded with north south and pond
knock on the waking door
and my glasshouse reveals a wedge
dopplered over this bed
reminding me of the time
their jumbo plastic lovers bounced out of the truck
spilling onto the road
like jacks, ass up.
And a sheepish moustached hidden hair camo driver
wrangled the statuesque reasons
into a pile of beaks
and shoveled them back in.

Our dogs chase the beauties
to keep them always in the air
and their seeds cold,
because Pop says they’re a scourge
of dung and din,
not worth the double ought used.
And I agree with his grounded image
of fear piss and bite
and walk booted
by the dogs’ crimp-necked trophies
who lay in the mud staring straight up
into more streaming gray,
cool whirl of life and November.
And the wedge calls down again to me.