We grappled that bird quiet between us
carefully holding its wings folded
and by whispers trying to calm the wild

The bow bent remembers home long,
the years of its tree, the whine
of wind all night conditioning

Mother is gone. Bird songs wouldn’t let her breathe.
The skating bug broke through the eternal veil.
A tree in the forest fell; the air remembered.

In a world where no one knows for sure
I roll my blanket for the snow to find:
come winter, then the blizzard, then demand—

My mother, who opened my eyes, who 
brought me into the terrible world, 
was guilty. Her look apologized: 

You would think while the hours helped,
if the wind was right, then follow
a current along shore till a beach

At night sometimes the big fog roams in tall
from the coast and away tall on the mountain road
it stands without moving while cars wander along

I took the trip just to try it
in spite of warnings from friends
about over-cooked borsht, dreary

started from unpretentious beginnings
and hasn't, in fact, come very far along—
still occupies the back wall of the bedroom,

The ass-muscles sag like a sling
but those glorious membranous wings
expand all the more extravagantly—