Dirty Milk("the moonhide pores ")

I arrive in my work slanted from
birdsong. The wings I once
wounded for loving hang dis-
jointed or limp across my back.
Her bottomless moping pours
roles I could fake, imaginary or

safe, or chips the paint
from cinderblock to show
the moonhide pores that
can't breathe us in. You

scatter me, I say to her, or
even then confusion should
flourish. The sky today wants
nothing more or less than to
swallow what could be my voice,
yours, singing to myself the

signs. If we part, the whole of mornings
roams my skin, searching for holes that
might allow more furrowed spore. In a dark
or contemplative gesture, our breathing

evens. Even the dead need pillows
below our feet. To sweeten a jagged
sky. To muffle what freezes under
your scold of blasting silence. But
you stir sometimes, watching the
world from our screened-in porch;
there some laughter just beneath you
when you tell me how you love those birds.





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