all the birds in your hands go south for the winter
the ones in your mouth flutter and preen
and prepare to nest in mine

the goldfish in your gut skim the water
light and trembling—children at play
darting through intestinal knots

you want to be my boy
you want to flush the mites out
you want to lick my wounds

you want to wipe the old maps clean
youve been under my skin now and you know
there are no dragons, here