i.o.

where the five crows today while the west wind blew.
caws far off, copper sun, the clouded stems,
a small ball of Jasmine rice, Troy's walls in each.
in each grain spirited, streaked grey
and burning red, repeats

leaf of the pollarded ash over the roof
where the dark sky shines
each, open slave ships,
foraged seeds in fine powder
away to ants' hidden lanes.

spit peanuts against curb
and windshield at eve, hard sacks set
shells atop the deep
dry leaves along with sap and droppings,
split pine cone teeth on the hot pewter lot.

now in the live pit of her chest of fans, black head like
wet grey fire crowns, Hecuba from the tree
leading the women, submits prisoner
to the haul over the red-blue sea
winter storms, downed in their nut black crescents.

Jason breathes heavy in his bit
of the shining abalone, Bumble Bee sleeps
in a soft fan spin
on the cool papers.
airy roar where fan wind taps the bamboo.