used to carry a tote, filled with dead
butterflies in each hand
his fingers, pinned against the handles
and his arms, numb
branches of cedar, glued to his legs
with the xylem sap from maple trees
the sun rose from his right lake
and set into his left swamp
his sclerae, filled with grains of salt
from the Dead Sea
blue jays migrated south
to build nests made of his hair
but his bald head was never meant
to be their promised land
once I dug his chest and found
only an empty priest purse
soon he covered the holes
I dug with Band-Aids
his trapped tongue wasn’t able
to pronounce consonants
his ears, stuffed with feathers
remained from his last dream of flight
