A bird’s nest in a thicket—
snarled hair growing
from a pink patch of earth
the diameter of a baby’s skull.
The pine trees spit needles.
Pearls clinging to the undersides of leaves
hatch into mouths and chew the leaves
to old lace, tattered and brown.
All the birds have buckshot eyes
and bone lips that stab, crush, pluck,
and also sing.

Blossoms mock me with their loose limbs
which fall open so easily,
inviting anyone to press their face
against the yellow sex,
coat their eyelashes with the pollen of sleep.
My legs press together—
two sides of a zipper
grinding its teeth.

I’ve climbed too high in the tree again—
my wings hang useless in a closet
with no doorknob.
On the desk,
a stack of fractured maps,
all the destinations torn off and lost.
The sun is a purple smear low in the sky
the horizon, a shank edged with rust—
a lethal thing to reach for.
A heart unknotted catches on everything—
a bird perched in a briar patch,
a length of thread in its beak.

What else am I to do
with all this loose skin
but fly?