Beak
And then she tells you that the coldest place
is a heart.
Not one of those ice hotels or expeditions
where men bury pick axes in scapula
but the chamber place with its ego
and fig needs.
Chunking ice into a glass you thank
yours for waltzing at bass bits
leaping along with the troop of puppets
that flew off the stage
the blackbird with the fractured beak
that never quite stopped smirking.
