Through your love words became clear,
were born again with a strange vigour,
like flat lines transformed through prayer,

The orchestrations of sunrise
much like the tune, abstract from the outset,
(this is the nature of music)

Thud, thud, all the sores go blind,
and over the basket of pears hover
brief addicted fruitflies.

Roll me in protective layers
of yourself, wool scarves.
Take me out in the snow.

On the cover of the book of 19th-century
etchings, three lady bicyclists, 
their black eyes fixed on the front wheels,

Not the wrist of the sunset
which sinks every night
below the electrical wires—

And the wingspan?
It varies; it can be
in microns, in centimeters, in meters.

The winds smell of thieves’ markets, of sweetbreads,
of rinds candied with thick syrups of the sun, of trees
glistening like dark men rubbed with oil.

Bob’s brother was born invisible, but through chance we can only call miraculous, he survived the delivery room and those dangerous early days on the planet. In fact, no one noticed him, although Bob’s mother did feel a second squeeze and jolt ten minutes after Bob was out. The 

I didn’t write Etsuko,
I sliced her open.
She was carmine inside