with teeth. Each one hungry and tugging.
Each one with air kindling beneath its wings, inside
its lung. I am not warm enough
to keep them. Their eyes so dim, their little throats so small
I have to break their pills over applesauce, stir them into
my marrow. The birds are anxious. The birds
grind their teeth too much. The birds are waiting for the sky
to come and part me. They are waiting to fly to you.