When I scooped fists of never-garden dirt into the song-hole,
I never felt more able.
When these wrists start to ache without pause from the carrying,
why, I will wrap them in a bandage.
The warmest moment of the inside body caves a little,
so I cease with its filling.
All collapsings want is a little distraction. All yearnings want
is a lifelong job.
The baby won’t be carried in by a bird, and a bird
can’t carry her out.
Give this refusal the head of a heron and it will have
its patron saint.
The unlearned part in the play might be winged. Some paces,
she plunges her beak down.
She will look as if she is hunting through the water’s glass,
but she is breaking her reflection.