Scrap, splint
the crescent is silver, it is
the nest-casket of the eagle;
its swoop is the feint
and the suicide dive into
the palm of your hand.
In that cold curve, in the chill
incandescence, the craters
and faces melt into
infant teeth; this sickle
made of the unforgiving, finally cradles
the auburn and brown wings;
and the beak, slack and crawling with
ants, closes and frames a single
These are the unreceived gifts;
we are the wish keepers.