consider their bodies—each separate bead
a head—the string of brains arch
like drumming fingers, or rather,
the knuckles. survival
in a smaller form. like a child pouring out
onto a table, the wide mouth
of an incision, a closed door.
you left me open there, leaves
& breath. Puddles Pity Party like a dream
of black & white film
& song. he opens his mouth, wider
than most, & out comes the sounds
of a clarinet, a tuba, a bird launched
into the higher branches
of a tree until all you make out
is the red smudge against
barren branch, no more sense
of feather or blood, the mother lost
in the presence of crying child, father dwelling
on the sidelines. his voice
in my ears, feathers in my mouth,
the bark like an arrival
in my hand. life will make no more sense
than this. more powder. more song.