Twice in the final hour a French
horn will crow. Examine the bark
of trees. At a ceremony to celebrate
oblivion, a peal of thunder
was birthed into meaning.
Two eagles descended, lapping
the horse that won the race of existence.
A loud voice: On the final day
of snow, flutes and whistles slowly
circle weeping caballeros.
To sublet summer
there are twelve silences
and two lambs.
A hand claps the thirteenth
silence, as if a shell upon a liquescent beach.
Planted in a field against a shadow,
a priest spun webbed echoes the size of
Easter. A new constellation, itself backward,
now drips upon the pavement
electronic obsidian.
Larry Sawyer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-foreign-coins/
