Black feather circles
Awkward patterns uneven
Float unopposed
And carried away
Along blue, along gray, on green
Follow scents riding the same rail
Ahead of the clouds, the wind,
And the rain
The sky is a stomach
The hills are bowels
Quartered, tarred, and feathered
By black machine owls
A prison is the backdrop
Along the marsh and clay
Hoods, robes, ropes, and sandals
Uniform the day
Breathing the dark vapor
From lungs made of tar
Unlikely playthings
Pumps, screens, and shards
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