The counting

I collect the daystars from the maidenhair;
The blackbirds had hung them there.

With their birdly hooks they stretched
The dawns: the innards of men
And the ever-mourning dusks.

A paler bow-tie they had made for
Death—a fitting colar of the Sunday tress.
    (I avoid Sunday's soft caress
But instead seek solace today.)  Now, when

The stars ferment and yield
And stretch into the sickled moons,
I shall have no place to turn

But to hold my knees against the dust. And count
Days like these like pennies
Of a financier's task: the greatest sum of all that
Was left behind.

Would the blackbirds question
Then as I carefully wallow through the dreams
(With their wings

    Carefully trimmed):
        Won't you follow?
        Won't you follow?

Dale Chou
2006-02-09