As when you wake, slowly
with tender simplicity:

a yawn, a stretch
of sinew and bone.

Every inch of the body’s
violin straining to play

a memorable chord. A man
away from his labor:

the Finch dancing dew
off its feathers;

two Robins as light,
blending in and out of dawn.

Let your waking settle
into this, a caress

to cage your quiet
sparrow breathing—

the mud not yet shed
from your lung’s unending

chambers; my own eyes still
heavy red, ripe with dreaming.

Wings too flutter within me,
Adam, like morning

Birds—which you have so
utterly named—after they

have gathered down
and devoured the seeds.

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