White Undersides of Feathers

Those pink tropical birds
like ballerinas
stumble, bow-legged
under the frost

but there's the hope
that the blood red savannah sun
will leave his bed
and come and heal
setting limbs
and cracking the earth
with his New York drums

But light was but a thought
that flew out
the minute we understood
how the planets work:

a Rushmore of men
their knees miles high
shaking hands forever
shoulders clasped
as those Manhattan girls look on
America, fertile
her sky the roof of the world
and her oceans blizzard
with those oily feathers