The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write, but I listened.
This morning, the light streaming through the window felt queer
on my face. Or having these cheeks and nose and eyes did.
Any face, or this one. Mine. The breeze on my toes sticking
out from the blanket and the heat of my legs under the wool.
Being in bed and inside of a body. Sweat stuck to the skin
of my hips, my inner thighs, my scrotum: this all mine and me
a body rising from unconsciousness as if that were natural.
The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write,
but I listened. I woke up when the song hit me like light.
The bird beaks pricked my skin.
This morning, the light was queer when it hit me.
I rose and left my body. I flew to the birds.