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.