Breath buoys out. My fingers know how to kill，
closing on the bird‘s slippery head.
I don‘t remember. Was it that beak bit my chin？
Was it a claw cut my wrist？ I blow feathers
away from its chest， smelling pennies and rain.
Skin like granite， 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
backwards. Eyes that go cataract bring clouds.
That fat pearl with wings looks like water disappearing in me.