Migration
The Generalissimo’s cigar has burnt down to a thumb,
they’re digging graves in the orchard. I counted four blackbirds this morning.
The firingsquad’s a lazy cat in this heat, the poor lads are perspiring.
They drink coca cola all night and coca cola all morning.
The dust swirls in little devils, in the redondel where I will die,
without achieving herohood, some inglorious morning.
The chicken bones of my last meal are clicking out a prayer for me,
the signs of dissolution have been found nailed to the morning.
Freedom mixes with the blood of the enemy, and of those who died for me,
I think of them most afternoons, but I tend to forget them by morning.
I bury myself in the snows of Wisconsin, now, heat and dust close my throat,
I bury my songs in the hills; there are no blackbirds these mornings.
