“The wren lives in brakes and crevices -Aristotle Historia Animalium IX.xi
“The hand does not divide into hands nor the face into faces. –Aristotle Historia Animalium I.i
This is the way things are: the wren skids between cirrus curls,
bark-brown against the suffering blue of afternoon
The tube that leads from the generator to my boy’s mouth
is clear and lined with pin-prick drops that bebop along
the metonymic chain should be swallowed slow--the wren
will ride on broader wings, hidden within the plumage of within
He does not breathe without the presence of my hand against the mask--
vapors, ravaged metals, enter his throat like rapids fall from fissured stones
The wren will be crowned king of birds, cunning in yellowed plume
watered-yellow as the eye of the broad-backed glider it rode upon
This is the way things are: I cannot see inside my boy.
His lungs I failed to build may be etched with blue vessels
The miniature mechanic of the sky will sail down on razor feathers--
its clever ascent guided by necessity.
He leans into me, slow. His belly, all that living estuary,
fits in the palm of me. The lungs I failed to build I flood with mist.
Reconstruction is made possible with wings and tubes