1. Seaplanes, Sunderland flying boats,
Martin Mars bombers used to be towed,
at a waddle, out of the green hangars
of Jericho, every flying machine
and installation made biblical
by the very name.  A tremendous
sheet metal aviary, whose startings-up
and take-offs terrorized,
temporarily, like a convention
of silver, moon-hexed crows,
who had forsaken their caw,
to  take up instead the collective
larynx of the lion: RrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrr.

Currently, occupied by a sailing club,
rental Lasers, ocean kayaks, wind
surf boards and sails on the sands
by the pier with its thick green
wrought iron railing.

Behind, backed up against Jericho Hill:
Aberthau House, the old officers’ mess.
The sky is full of absence, as it always is.
Nothing, but air and sea birds—salt
flavours, coasting or curling for the eye
on a sun-yellow, evening saunter,
like the limbs of a chicken
for the stock 
through a pot of impeccable
chicken soup.

2. Pet rabbits were released in Jericho Park.
Coyotes came, eagles flew down.  Only
the canniest survived to nibble among
the barbed wands of blackberry.

An Era of Easy Meat at Locarno

Where I ramble
By Jericho in the March
Mist and murk to take stock,
I glimpse an eagle perched
On a hemlock,
Above a bramble
Patch and rabbit that cannot dissemble
Its giddy nibbles in the grass, a pet bunny
Its bum left to bob like a yoo-hoo to a tummy
In a tree.  Fast food, it will tremble
And jerk, then clog the eagle’s throat,
Without redress, like a fur
Coat
On a hamburger.