Bird wears a mask, the past                 
’s black feathers, blue
 
tinsmith’s coro-
net, blood
streak
folds
down to
the throat of
 
the heart
(the heat
the hurt)—
and what
if the body is
nothing but
 
an eight-ounce can
running on empty—
spirit too is a fly-
by-night contraption (made
of newspaper wings? a murder
trial maybe? scores
from the sports page?)
 
We curl and yellow
with stasis and age
but invention is our genius
our ticket to drift —
 
A thin
 
woven cord holds
the bird up, makes him
think he can fly.
 
An eye
like a gasoline
cap.