If all the cages have keys, the throats
of birds pinned to the wall.

The truck idles for days
at the curb in front of the house.

A window, the painted face of a dancer
vanishes. If the cup holds.

A slow leak, a full tub.
If the saucer is flying

across the room, unexplained.
If December

wakes in a white room
without windows.

If we cannot keep its eyes
clean by tearing phlox

from its roots. If not the dirt,
the sun, the snow, the floods

will open us. If blood carries
histories of creatures walking

with wings. Then a bleeding
tongue, then a whipped

horse, then a muzzle.