For so delicate, we carry 270

bones. For so mighty, we lose

64 bones. A bone fits inside

a dog’s mouth. A dog’s mouth
fits in a fresh meat. We grieve

over what’s fresh, for who wants

a cold body? A body fits inside

a plane. You sleep to kill time.
Can you kill something not

alive but beats fervently? Time

gives way to unearthing, the

cage rattling open. A cage
can fit a bird; the bird fits in

a cage. Why will you escape

when there is a hand that feeds

you? The problem with
confinement is being fine. What

I would give to fit in this world.

The world fits inside me. Swells

in my palm. Carry boulders in
outer space. You cannot say it’s

heavy if there is no gravity. Why

does the plane resist the crash?

What else can fit in this lifeless
bird if not bottles, and what else

can fit in bottles except your laugh?

Your laugh can fit inside me. I can

fit inside you. You can fit all of me.
A poem fits in my fingers. Can I

fit you in one? I have returned

from the land swallowed in flood.

My hands can’t fit water in them,
but they fit in my chest. Your heart

fits in your chest. Dogs bite bones

when they grieve for fresh meat.

The bird took flight and did not
look back. I drank your laugh,

smashed the bottles, shards deep

in my skin. My wings strained

on the weight of your heart.