I seek to understand-

the crane in the neck of the horse, tired within the crook of Eldon and Emmerson, 

frequented by the oiled talon of the one eyed pigeon with a talent for locating trinkets

like the one he found on the soup stained hat of a passersby

revealing a twinkle, reflected by the scarab brooch 

worn by the atheist sister of the glasses cursed nun

who threw out the cardboard box made homeless

by the drifts, last Sunday evening

and neglected to notice 

the stitched shell of the man who abandoned it, clutching blankets with ripped gloves

atop of the algid marble of the church cellar.