Because the bird flew before
            there was a word
            for flight

                                     years from now
                                     there will be a name
                        for what you and I are doing.

            I licked the mango of the sun—

            between its bone and its name
            between its color and its weight,

                        the night was heavier
                        than the light it hushed.

Pockets of unsteady light.

                        The bone—
                        the seed
            inside the bone—

                                      the echo
                        and its echo
                        and its shape.

            Can you wash me without my body
            coming apart in your hands?

                        Call it wound—
                        call it beginning—

The bird’s beak twisted
            into a small circle of awe.

            You called it cutting apart,
                        I called it song.