The Neighbor Columns

the blackbirds were his first target.
when he had reached the pillars
he would slow way down
and, careful,
place his hands.
his wide eyes kept, and betrayed, him a boy
on in from the first touch
critic of the cut
a disciple of the weight
bed time in our bunk beds he'd
tell me he was looking for the ravens in the marble
not to startle in their eye
but to move in their bones
i never slept the nights
he had run to the neighbor columns
for the crow of exhausted birds still circling overhead.