I am a thousand birds,
caught in a net of flesh, and I have learned to struggle slowly. Listen, when you touch me, for the delicate breaking of hollow bone;
Know that my shiver is long memory of winter and broken straw.
I am waiting for you, the bones of my face pressing like wings against the skin.
There may be
( though I doubt it )
men easy to love,
whose smiles are soft
without sharp edges,
waiting.
You are not one.