a scarlet rooster pecks my head for pennies
by following its hen-steeled beak
into the skull's enlarging excavation
for fossils of extinct light's early thrusts.

the hay i trampled in marauder frenzy
lays rest to shame a swine,
so nobler than me,
so hiding like a glove on pasty hands.

the stable horses sharpen hooves on droppings
and all bodes ill conception or designs
of more importance than the milk,
still tainted by the cows it deceived.

the door swings swindler blues and cracks a broom
in naked hands that wrestle sweeping
into the ground's ring as i sit up
and ask my rooster for the time,

and ask my rooster to be time,
itself a cock.


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