We perform best when

we listen to the bird

inside the bird, dark bellied

ugly augur song that

likes to measure us out

of space. For demonstrative

purposes the body can affix

to any orphan line. My eyes are bulls’

eyes, my calves are wet,

pliable, the roped-in death

of me. My mother is

a fertility trick. We perform

best when we admonish

our animals for

the gaminess they visit

upon our routine. We are not two

of everything in

a line, following the color

spectrum. My father is a shadow

on the image. I look for a bird

inside a bird because it slips

bones out of

everything I touch.

I break the character and look

for hours like a body

no one knew to recover.