Servitude Poem for a Mid-December Sunday Morning

Wrist, knuckle, plethoric gasps!
I hear them, these bloated grackles, these traffic roars,
And then, it’s a
palm, scalp, straps, abundance—
57 deft twigs sprout off an oak bone
that is a hull, bullish, awful and dear
to the cobalt sky, sky, wrinkled sky
that parts like soprano throat and dog eyes
and odd elegies of
incapable limbs that squabble, huddle,

heave
as only the bereaved and left behind may.