This is exchange number three... I've saved my poem with the picture, as a jpeg, so that the formatting is visible; the use of space is actually integral to the poem. However, it may be difficult to read, so the text of the poem is included below (enjoy! though it lacks the impact of the original), but lacks the formatting:
Brutal, this
precariousness
of life always
dancing on edge.
There are two ways out
and they are not a door, but
a window.
Rent limbs feeding
young, and whether one hawk
or fifty
dark scavengers
war or dreaming
with flagrant violence
or, as some go, peacefully
wounded earth
will one day heal.
The ecology of death
still bears
the shape of ancients.
A murdered boy
will bury his mother
for the crime of speaking
and yet
slender blades
will burst from sand
green and fresh
time will run
backwards
no one suffers
the indignity
of worms and maggots
doing what they know
like this
flesh and bone
a bone feast, offering
alms for the birds.
