and as the winged insects pour forth from hinged skull, a stretch no more than reason — the timbalous rudiments of flight on frisking wings — the staples of summered dusk — late sun shattering on nicks of stained glass — of infiltration — a stolen clasp of mind — a decanted vacuum where once built an inside city — fed upon by bandit brilliance and husked by the great abatement there appears in the sky the first swallow of many.
This is one of those flanking poems, like a sheepdog, spiraling in on a point that, in this case, remains shrouded in the metaphor. Basically the idea is that ideas are all mostly stolen. They’re pretty food, and when you all of yours get eaten by something, you can always eat someone else’s. Still not exactly right, but over-explaining doesn’t do much to sate the appetite.