In the evenings I hear my vertebrae crack,
applause, accepting that consolation prize
in grim silence,
in grin’s solace,
in the low of secret trippings of harp strings,
beautiful on deaf ears.
I sing with the pain as with the fury,
as with the written nuances of joy.
I hear the underwater snapping of pieces,
muffled by an ocean and wrapped in flesh
quiet by virtue of uniformity,
quiet by virtue of reality,
and quiet by virtue of reverence.
I should’ve asked the hopping bluebird
if his lot was mean to bear
before the crushing of his head had foiled his helping-
his jaw and mine and the cat’s all still
But I know that brimstone doesn’t spoil in the heat
as angel-milk bestowed to lube aching joints,
and I have eaten my share of birds-
we are all hurtled to Earth
on breaking bones.