From the Fishouse

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.