you wear your beating heart
flowering from your chest
with your beak
you pick at the stitches
****
he who was born
from the weavings of nests
is happy.
the finch climbs out of itself
the thighs of the rookery
the plumage made as
birth is a making
and he sings his shrill song
unmetered by the fetters of pain
the terror of being
escaping from the craftings of beaks
of nests, of eggs
singing
"I am both the fruit and the orchard
both the crop and the plow
I am the feathers with which I'm feathered
I am the broken shell
I remember snow
like white fire in my eyes
like diamonds
the water of my people's tears
belatedly freezing
were the sparkles of the furnace
the stigmata of light
But I,
Finch and none other,
sing not of the past.
there is no journey
before the unbidden snow."
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