The curtains belly in the waking room.
Sails are round with holding, horned at top,
and net a blue bull in the wind: the day.
They drag the blunt hulls of my heels awake
and outrigged by myself through the morning seas.
If I do land, let breakfast harbor me.

In winter a crow flew at my head
because her fledgling warmed
the brute nest of my fist. Ah,
the pear clipped in her yellow beak
fell from her cry of “Ransom,” and
I freed my bird for grace.