One had feathers like a blood-streaked koi，

    another a tail of color-coded wires.

    One was a blackbird stretching orchid¹ wings，

    another a flicker² with a wounded head.

    All flew like leaves fluttering to escape，

    bright， circulating in burning air，

    and all returned when the air cleared.

    One was a kingfisher trapped in its bower³，

    deep in the ground， miles from water.

    Everything is real and everything isn't.

    Some had names and some didn't.

    Named and nameless shapes of birds，

    at night my hand can touch your feathers

    and then I wipe the vernix from your wings，

    you who have made bright things from shadows，

    you who have crossed the distances to roost in me.