The white trees wait like armatures
For rain to build itself against.

In this sense, they resemble me,
Though I await rain secondarily

To your return. Till then I lie
And magnetize the vultures

From the sky to pluck
Their greasy feathers. For your sake

I’m constructing wings out of bent
Remnants of border wire. This way

You’ll recognize me—when I spread
My black contraptions, you will see

Me as I am, a secular phoenix
Parenthesizing everything that moves.