rewrite
Bird Carver
He spends Sundayscarving wooden swansout of maple smooth,sap and sweetness,electric and nervous,his hands loop around the long necks of birds.
Cinnamon, his eyes,filled with amber smoke,shy silk of small talkis snow melting on skin.
You must be an expertin Mozart to know himbecause he is made of ivory, the forbidden Pia Jesu lips of a loversaved […]

honey in the trees.
we are halved the way shells are, hinged in the mirroringof the self.
be aware of what pours forth:
this opening of armsto the great things in the world.
white temple.
the shore bows down, like we do.