listing

this year's inventory of the
changeling between my ribs
is uncountable

sparrows, 
or something
that flutters
and swarms

more like
a hornet's nest than
monarchs;

something that gnaws
more like aphids than
a chipmunk;

something that storms
more like lightning
than the sea,

or the sea sometimes,
with lightning; and

your hands, or at least
that's how it feels;

an empty space more like
an attic than the sky
above it; and red

more like muscle
where it's finally
supposed
to be.