for seven springs the harrowing bloom
of inclination set upon my breast called a scavenger
magpie
women working, the front of a restaurant
in a tiny rural town told me
magpies
formed a bridge over the milky way
of white bellies and scapulars; short and rounded
magpies
over which two lovers met
on the seventh day of the seventh month I expect
magpies to emerge full flight from my rib cage