In his hair there is a bird’s nest

where all twigs merge

So your fingers dive in

in search of a volcanic skin

razor-sharp river on fingertips

sonnet sewn back together like an abecedary

Schoenberg now a poet, the bulldozer’s footsteps

the ankles give in and the head bursts.

Why make poems when we can make

bursting heads? the flesh is a head taller than the verb

In his mouth there is a bird’s nest

where a rough and sticky tongue emerges

Wasp and larva snuggled up in the alveolus

lung becomes shapeless, burnt breath erupts

kisses the calcareous lips

chapped tongues with impossible phonemes

upside down, the twelve labours of breathing

In his bellybutton there is a bird’s nest

where lint takes root

You cultivate each thread like an orange tree and

you drown in the brown sugar and elderflower smells

your fingers are roots your tongue is a root

your tendons are roots // tectonic shoulder blades

the mandible that tries to follow idiotheque

Radiohead = root that penetrates sappy bones

Around his sex there is a bird’s nest

where the twigs are transfixed

by the light and the scents of the earth

By osmosis, you accept gravity

your nerves splash around

on his shivering skin

you recognize in him the semi-canonized

you kneel before the scarlet-blooded pontiff

your head an aquarium, the rain a tragic shade

you laugh.

The nest-bearer is so beautiful

his hand is so white and warm like a spring

flattening everything on its path

the music he makes with the rustlings of his

shirt as it falls to the ground are so gorgeous

the earthquakes in his voice are plenty

and he has rocks in his feet that hold him down

like his breath holds you down