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The red–winged blackbird opened its hinge over the water
dipping below the bridge, our car; as suddenly–red as blood
but nothing touched me like his bony hand,
the fingers gently working with a mind of their own;
unless it was his sad eyes, looking at me all the while,
blue, wide–open as a child's, face still.
Or that oceanic substance which I called
his soul, in which I rolled for two years and a night,
and the smallest portion of our last
spilled–ink–blue dawn, with morning
blowing open like a door. His beautiful and complicated
heart–strings snarling and tangling with mine,
My dreams, disguises, his masks and remarks;
my long white nightgown nervously swirling around his legs
in their loose gray cotton shorts.
Then birds in their early singing,
tired faces at the diner,
everything rushing forward reached to touch me
with his slender, bony hand.
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