Birds of a Feather, or, What is that Wire?

THERE is no single centre, but many,
and each stopped body has its very own
ragged flight of feathered satellites, birds
so notorious for their fear of motion,
save for their own roll, pitch, and yaw, that
they patiently wait out the final gasp
before perching upon the stock-still ribs.

WHILE ropes and chains tether other orbits,
the stallion breaking and the barking dog,
defining their circles, what is that wire
that fixes these strange birds on broken things?
Perhaps the same tug that tugs the still-breathing
toward the stage to reset it, to relight it
before dawn, to carry off the carrion.