first fell like invocation—a drone
wing wracked, calor-sick, shitting sparks as it swivelled through cloud rot
through ozone’s bruised femur
a languid death ballet above the burial crags 

condors tarrying—not vultures
no, these were feathered parsons with crimson dipped beaks
sermons engraved in voracity
ojos polished by haboob

 

they unfastened the machine’s costae
gulped its wiry marrow clean
cuprum intestines offered up like garlands for altars
sculpted of bone & battery

 

what if flight but falling honed

 

sky stitched with scars of surveillance
the bloody drones watched us fuck in junkyards
now they lay down their lithium glossas
in nests snaked with barbed wire & hushedness

 

the wind is a fabricator here—
it moans in binary, voices stash me
in guttural hums & the carrion gods kneel
to gnaw on silicon reveries of empire

 

once we dreaded their glance, now
we pen psalms with their motherboards
varnish our faces with thermal paste
don rot like resurrection

 

nothing perishes—not really
it just feeds the welkin another story
that cascades in reverse & again & again
& again

 

until we too are wolfed down into myth
bit by blinking bit by something
with wings & dolor for oil
in its fucking throat