–for that 26 year-old in Florida
God left before volt of black feathers descended
Buzzards left before wolves routed home with a rib
Inside their den, regurgitation of skeleton, and then another
Because wolves have two stomachs, I only have one
There is quiet now in the hospital room
Ventilator’s tail pulled from electrical socket
Your parents weep a lake. A sky and moon, too
They weep a pelvis, a painting. It hangs in a museum
I steal your hip bone, tuck it deep inside my pocket
Where else does a love note fit if not next to a groin
O, solitude. O, white-winged moth, I masquerade
My left eye blue nests a moon, I disguise myself from God
His messengers in black robes picking for a kidney
Your mother writes He never met a stranger
O’Keeffe finds herself in the desert, a transplant
Long after the buzzards and wolves have left
I ingest dissolvable moons so that we stay strangers
Two skeletons of different stomachs:
One lost in the desert, the other a planet, a god
A wolf swallows his own rib to rebuild us all