Needing Only One Thing
The bird sleeps in my bed, his slick wings
gorgeous in their black stillness, an oval
of the forest's fragrance spreading toward me.
He is breathing.
He is breathing and I am
not sure I can watch any longer the slash
of his eye not quite opening, but trying.
The bird sleeps in my bed, and soon
he will wake to reclaim his obstinate
I will not let him
I pull the sheet over our bodies
tenderly, firmly, and we sleep on and on.
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