REPORT

The articulation of my bones

a bird’s, I woke not just not knowing

where or who but what I was:

my opened arm a wing in which she rested,

the two of us fuscous and fused

in the feathery half-dark

until that consciousness that’s always

roving, testing, that’s roving now,

striving to assemble an accurate report,

probed further into the feeling

and found me made of string and straw,

bits of silky floss licked together,

a nest shaped to fit her unfledged shape,

an account of ourselves I accepted

until daylight pried apart the louvers

and I discovered myself fingering

the soft stubbles of her shaven hair.