Or perhaps—perhaps—I am just an upturned tree, all my roots earth
laden and bare. Perhaps I fell over so I could worship at the altars of birds.

Or I am a harlequin waterfowl, speckled—black-white, black-white—
hiding safely in day or night. My eyelids are made of feathers

so dark they throw off an emerald sheen. And here I am—still—at home
bobbing on top of this endless white sea, batting my lashes

toward every beacon—on any remaining shore—ignited
and burning brightly throughout all the black worlds.