–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