Of course, your songs in their bright red melodious coats I jump
into the pocket where your right hand goes, play with your fingers
like they’re my own private army of clutches.
I do not know which doctor it was, but it must have been one, who
plucked out both my eyes and sewed them to your tongue so all I
could see when you opened your mouth was daylight.
moving across your lips. This same surgeon, I believe, must have
been made of miracles for he managed to clip my ears to the
insides of your cheeks like two pink wings.
A few tender beats in the wind of your breath and I could, if I
wanted, unleash the bird in your throat.