Look up at the swarm of colormass, the cluttered


Upswing of the world in the predawn hours


Thousands of balloons in one pitch rise, all in rotation


As if floating along the same


Watercourse guidepost, an unmatched current


Ribbing and cackling crowds fill the fields


Above, traffic jams of well-manned, wingless


Vessels forge, one by one, their own trajectories


Each privy to weight, whim, gust




Rib bones snap

with a crack crushed

by the horseís bulk,

its sweaty heaving.

The bodies lie, large

and small hearts

pounding against

another in a unified

death. Hours drain

the manís body of

blood and sound,

the crown of his head

pooled in sticky

memory, a muddling.

While the horse

will lie for days,

leg splintered, side

sore from the body

beneath. Helicopters

come later, swirl

over the mountain

 in pitched rotations,

drop searchers down

into the passes. Voices

hammer the hillsides.

Watercourse paths yield

nothing, instead

itís the buzzards,

winging off the bodies.




Ribbing and cracking on the live wire



            we scoot above



                  in pious rotations



      shadow the valleyís




                        and then


                  winging off



Rebecca Morgan Frank is the author of Little Murders Everywhere (Salmon 2012), and her poems have appeared in such places as Guernica, Ploughshares, Bat City, Crazyhorse, Post Road, and Best New Poets 2008. She is an assistant professor at the University of Southern Mississippi and the co-founder and editor of the online magazine Memorious.