Beak

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.