Cassie Donish
she saw real birds
as wind-up birds with intricate
machinery; their whistles, the metal
architecture of their wings—she saw
them perched atop the hospital,
where exhausted women brought
catatonic loves. She thought,
all buildings are wild, inviting people into
their mouths. One day they’ll chew
the crowd to dust, spit out bones, watches,
doves. The crosshatch of winter
branches: another production
of the eye machine. In that season
of patterns, all that mattered
was motion; once again, stillness
meant danger. A strong wind
blew, a leaf the size of her face
flew against her face,
covering it, and she did nothing
to remove it. Right where her
eyes were, the leaf was slit—
