I’ll weave my hands into nests, fold

fingers into plastic unable to insulate–

nothing will hatch here

I’ll hoard dead eggs–

roll them until they crack,

grind their shells to powder and

draw the lines I need to

conjure, spirits of the air–

your mouths will never be hungry.

you’ll have no updrafts, no mating songs but

there’s not a window you can’t fly through,

not a rafter you can’t roost under

forgive me and this unraveling

forgive me and let me finish