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Palms up to a bared existence
flashing tossed in a small child’s hand,

casting thin, jagged teeth shadows 
on the edge of a frozen river bank.

I want to fill my mouth with purity
vomit a cleft heart on beating dove wings,
for only the broken can belly the infinite
as sparks spill out the fire pit.

But here they are, if you could only hear them
beating on, my empty cage of rib

broken and bent, wilted and wounded
tight fists – but fleshy open maps

to one who wanders without direction
and eats the pale feathers found along a carved shore.