It’s you&me in the morning decay. Bodies sprawled
in sheets like an albatross that just hit a windowpane

			&needs a second— then
			
shakes off the muted sting before she goes after glassy
horizon again. We are a slow breathing bundle of limb;

			awkward angle, unable to move without
			twisting the other. The back end of knees


are the inside of a wing the moon-scythe of your smile is the
inside of a wing the split-ends of my skin are covered in soft

			feather&spit. You arc my spine into
			sundials, switchblade heart through


surface&hand me back into myself. Our
sunrise makes glassy eyes of the window.

		—

First coffee after morning sex, stained-
teeth seconds, blinking on your nightstand,

			reminding us of friction. 2Tblspn
			of awakening: starlight&starlight&
			
starlight. Dreamscape horizon&its morning
breath, spitting newspaper-grey mountains

			crunched in a fist. Beyond:
			the albatross, ejecting from
		
her nest— maybe she’s not an albatross, but
snowy owl, robin, blackbird, overdetermined


			large winged prehistoric hen— shakes off 
			the night, soaring towards sun. She throws 

herself into horizon, morning after morning, expecting
freedom. Inside, we are making tiny miracles, bending&


		finding curvature. She is flying
		against common sense. &when


she hits the window— mirage&glassy&eggshell-
infinite— it doesn’t keep you from stopping. But

		her blood is pink the sun is pink the sky is
		pink&when I bite, my tongue splits. There’s

this heart-shaped print against the glass. And for
thumping moment, it feels like we break my neck.

		—

That night, we will stand there, in front of the glass,
your body behind mine, my fingers splashing against 

			her imprint, the minute fractures left
			by an animal hitting clarity. This new
	
starburst in our view of the window. Every
morning, she does this— decides the pain


			is worth the risk, ragdolling herself against a bleeding
			horizon, shifting curtain, trying to break through. We 

are making stars in the morning, &we are
uncertain if she is wanting to find us, her


			future, an illusion. If she’s seeing the same thing
			we’re seeing, reflected in the glass. I wonder if she’s 

conscious, if she knows what she
is doing. That when she is flying
			
			into reflection, she is flying into
illusion, against horizon, against herself.