Tap-tap-tap the flicker's beak
On the door of a dying tree
That opens on a vestibule of blue
A life without leaves to see
One's way back to the trailing sun
But just enough to stand there
Like a naked phallic Greek
Expounding his geometry
Of light-constructed lines
Crossing one another in the wind
A skeleton of pregnant limbs
Solely dependent now
On the charity of stars the moon's
Slow keening in the snow
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