—for CHP

We found his blueness speckled
and shaking on the concrete patio—

                       what about the solid house struck him so vividly
as open space?             A home
                                                           seems sealed, a green
crypt for private lives projected
screen to screen, or a new nearness to the sun, justly
ripens a table of the season's last apples
under one skylight                  a stupid, stupid beauty
who broke himself suddenly, how
this wide-eyed reflection into absence                atoms plucked
loose (a door, a window, a shocked birdwing)

and eking messages from worldly
things—mesh, bone, glass
                       enclosures for our every self—
Did he see it coming?
He did not. Or,
he did, but        was a betting bird.
                                                Do you see your face
in the animal kingdom? No, though I wish.

                                                Do you make a terry cloth bed
                                                for your own craven frame
                                                in a cardboard box and place
                                                it on the compost bin? To wait.

I do.

For what?             Inhumanity to arrest us.

At first, I thought he'd recollect the treetops—
be on his way—inexhaustible unlikeliness,
correct order, assembled letters             that is to say:
Stupid, stupid beauty. Ask me again:
How's your heart tonight? How soon
is too soon to weave an indigo nest
                                                                          from his feathers and my hair?
The beats amass, resembling sloshed
questions, but heaving with their opposites                    answers eaten from within by endless fire—
I can't tell you what to make of it—
                                                                          his body carried away one dark night
                                                                                       in the mouth of an orange cat.