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The Auspices
II Ex Avibus
Fearsome in winter clothes, the children plumb
the fledgling wren from its reckless home.
Explorers upon a shipwreck, they prod the wing,
mittens mining its dangling neck for wishbone
—the sun has fallen again behind the rock-gray
clouds, pinioned this imitation of light in its place.
Find the furcula, that little fork, wish for dinners,
new shoes, to lift that thick blanket from your mother.
Break the bone. Show god your teeth as you tear.