Good.
Maybe it's clearly indicative of a creative process.
It's called, Private Pantomime.
I will reach into the grab bag of unconscious things
and pull forward what?
Here, a fatherless bird supine in the palm
of my hand with bony wings folded inert, beak agape.
What sort of raw word explains pin-feathered skin
and a certain death that rides in the quivering flesh?
I turn it out, it falls with a weighted thud.
Blood, and the sight of such weak eyes waiting,
puts my humor about.
And I thrust both my hands into a pair of gloves, tight.