When the light broke
upon your crown of crow’s feathers,
you didn’t believe in silence or sound. Your dime-round-eyes
widened with your chest,
the way
The sound of them woke me in the morning, feet kicking up careful spirals of leaves and lean, low voices under my window. All
The irises aren’t eyed, but tongued: the three bearded sepals droop, pant, loll among the splayed jade-green blades, while behind the jumble of tilted