These Days

I turn to the shadows,

to the sun that struggles to rise

in the sky and the moon that has sliced

a thousand small ears. I turn

to the bat that roosts

on hollow branches, I turn to the bird

that drinks on the wing. I sleep alone

these days, and rarely speak.

But in dreams, birds weave

my saliva into nests shaped

like brackets to enclose

all the questions I am

not ready to hatch.

Teach me

to harden in the air

I say,

waking up, pecking

my own face.