the sky is inside a shell,
earth too and mountains, the least of them.
rivers aswell and oceans and fish and balls
of rice. all shells. this chair, this book
I read, the very light in the air. that hat,
cousin to your brow, also a shell.
pleasing the way our fingertips feel that
texture just below our beaks. it’s only
that sometimes we forget how fragile the
face, how easily misplaced but then
rain forgives a lot. and when we awake,
new feather wings, and when we sleep,
sky is all curves.
curving beneath new-made wings.