Tumble of wings. The broken bird
faces nothing. It’s a blamming of shoulders against panes,
wings, tail, bunched to the heart’s bursting force;
a mop of black feathers in which blood fists and scrubs and fists
against pain.
Afterwards, you lift the bird and its eye’s sealed
as if resigned to your weakness. As if resisting
the stillness which opens like glass to show
yellow silk creased at the lid, the blare of blood on a beak.
Pull a flick-flack stretch of wing and let it go.