Rhino

White wing telegraphed home,
night had broke the river.
News grew from her mouth
like dandelions from a barrel.
The barman left his piano
black with grit and rain,
thrust his crooked arm
by the teeth of the window,
clicked his fingers twice.
The canary fluttered childishly
vanishing inside the candle
and the shadow of her wing
beatified his open palm.
There was romance that year
in the palmistry of air.
He went behind the bar.
In dehydrated settlements
strung across the plains
there is a religion of whisky
and a religion of wings.

Night had broke the river.
White wing crawled inside
the wiring of the telephone.
He lifted the receiver.
The canary's bones scattered
like dice across the sky.
The barman swore outloud.
Grief in him grew
and made him tender.
His brother, in Denver.
Over his bowed head
the storm collapsed,
bellowing and grey,
with a broken horn.
He nursed his drink
as its footfalls died away.