Garvey’s Return

Believe in the miracle of an eagle,its eye fixed on some necessary prey—both air and land its kingdom,its name imperial, its purpose divine—here, in this city, this ghettoof fowl-eating gold traders,saved and hellion alike,who do not see the bird circlingthe crisp spring sky, its wings catchingcurrent to hover, then dive to graspthe gross gray betrayer, to clutchpinguid fur and adipose flesh in talon,alight the oak and snap into the vermin’sbody—a feast of entrails thick with salt.A hearty gust in the green leaves singslook for me in the whirlwind or the storm,look for me all around you.