Brutally, the Robin

clutches the clear muscles of the ice-

laden branches.

Without a scrap, without a word

he is sentenced

in red pajamas like a deposed king.  This is the world’s

revenge against masculine beauty: the bold color

it granted it withdraws, whole, in bold statement.

His eyes are black-rimmed, his fluted bones 

could lift if they wanted.

But where, at this late hour?  To what embassy?

He belongs to the void now, that prairie,

and is starving, I said.

“Brutally, the Robin” first appeared in Crazyhorse, Number 68.