FULL SERVICE POET

Criss-crossed feathers
push aside cracked eggshell
toward a less muted light.

Wings don’t know yet
which way is up.
Only the center—the center of this opening—
                                                            appears
                                                   as home,
                                           as bursting,
                             as too full
for this broken shell.

And now know
the new light through white
feathers--their spectral edges--and a new faith
the crosshatch of these wings across eyes will emerge
as a pattern                           as they unfold.