The Bird’s Skeleton Is A Boat

Name the ship sparrow, dry spindle of wings--row, my son row.
October’s field of grass is a dry sea. Nailed to the tree
there’s a white card, a woman with a head full of snakes--
"to find God one must burn." My head is a fire, nothing is holy.
In Revelation it states: angels sit at the right side so full of love
they become flame, ash, ignite, begin again. Underneath the wing,
the sparrow is a church. All good crows disguise themselves as birds.
The holy are drowning themselves in ordinary days.
They are walking in fields. I’ve spent a lifetime with fire.
I cannot find prayer. My head is water. It’s time to launch the ship.
It's time to feed the sparrow--burn, my child burn.