Under The Poplars

      Like priestly imprisoned poets,         

the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.

On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem                 

chew arias of grass at sunset.                 

      The ancient shepherd, who shivers         

at the last martyrdoms of light,                 

in his Easter eyes has caught                           

a purebred flock of stars.                           

      Formed in orphanhood, he goes down         

with rumors of burial to the praying field,         

and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

      It survives, the blue warped         

In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded,                 

A dog etches its pastoral howl.