What If We Each Lost a Thumb in the Door?

First sleep like words you live by
as style and error in flightless
birds outside your window--lit through
as precise as the effort on

the curb of exhaust-

pipe condensation.

Waiting to leave your house tending

to think, waiting to leave. Your house's

loose feathers flexed off

and smuggled between persons, thin;

"I'm glad you kept an eye out for me

when you were around."

Seconds after we push

the dead Cadillac from the driveway, still

waiting for Antinoos to leave. A few more

years of eventfulness and acquaintances.

Out back the stump whose bark sticks up

like a crown: pull the tree, leave said

wrapper, inhale.

Feel better. All

fingertips as dusters, joints

of geese break off, your jaw clenches

before you reach below the seat, intuit

còndor, rest under the strong ginger

smell that fashions

our whole flighty mess.