It's something like a desert, something
withering of throat and limbs. The blood's slow
caking from the edges, saving the heart.
It goes a little way, still warm. A thin thrum
of wings, darkening.
and there's that place
by the shrub, where you left him
like a hump of earth, the shadows of two leaves
stretching over his dry lids. It's the bones of something.
Stooping into something like a well,
a brown shallow with a rim
of sallow mud, speckled with dead
wings, and filling your skin.