A hawk skims the exterior
of the interior hill— piercing non-syllables
you cannot dream—; its sound is extreme,
red rick-rack on a hill, red’s arid
shadow on the other side,
chattering with dead men in dead books,
shattering with red men in red nooks,
no more anger than he’s
supposed to do, but
angry enough, check-check-check,
not angry enough to not to, & who
are we to judge at the edges, & where,
who throw money at death
who throw money at death
who throw money at death
who throw money at death
who throw money at death
who throw money at death
From Extra Hidden Life, among the Days. Copyright © 2018 by Brenda Hillman. Reprinted with the permission of the author and Wesleyan University Press.