Sparrows swore they’d never gnaw
my shallow flesh—boneskin clutch in hollow suit.
Bud sprouts pirouette through flat-lined
pages wasted like days,
like trumpets marching rigadoon through iron ambits.
Freezing limbs and senses—
I can’t smell the mud of new birth.
Sparrow teases the device of forgetting
camel-lashes thick like fingers that
framed my face,
or legs treading indifferent plateaus.
Vater, unclench my fingers;
Ich kann nicht verlassen.
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