A Bird in Hand

    Breath buoys¹ out. My fingers know how to kill，

    closing on the bird‘s slippery head.

    I don‘t remember. Was it that beak² bit my chin？

    Was it a claw cut my wrist？ I blow feathers

    away from its chest， smelling pennies and rain.

    Skin like granite³， a real white-blue， flecked

    by knots of new growth. I found my need，

    cold in cupped palms， just the way I was taught.

    I return to account for whose neck falls around

    backwards⁴. Eyes that go cataract⁵ bring clouds.

    That fat pearl with wings looks like water disappearing in me.