We rehearse faithfully
along the spine of a meadowlark.

Inside its cage
there’s no refrigerator

and a raspy heart
sleeps in a nest of apology.

I stagger with reasons,
you leave every light on.

Step into the blue wash.
You do not have cancer.

With soliloquy
talon a pain in the sky.

Whisper a magical downstage.
You do not have cancer.

Halve a grape with eagerest teeth,
eyes with inside jokes.

Its luminous oozes a longing,
a feeble beak is opening.

The woman pouring coffee
has the hands of spring.