And there is every pair of umlauts
for their own deloused. The saltine splinters
 
like the wingless, butter fingers dropping all
over lake water, were only because of a black bird, all
 
its tom-tom beak cackling-carrying, dropping
all that a brother of my mother once captured
 
on a phone. It was cold as, say Schrödinger's
surprised, while still, all the buildings were
 
attentive to the moon, making gingham muted in the eye
-yellowed distance. It was just so labyrinth-bleary we
 
could not even blink being the origin of tools. Let alone
paddle at the rim of language. Say the Blitz was now auto
 
corrected to bait. But this. This. This was no fish-
eating bird they hear us. Say, say it was regular, bird-awake
 
as any fowl of the night. With neither a heart, nor a head
other than hunger. As though what I didn't know was, that
 
I was small-bony fish, tucked into what—had no teeth at all,
not even a nippled peck of a kiss at all, not even one
 
of foreshadowing. I don't remember it being so alive it is
fully not. The hurry of mist, missed like water, leavening.