Back on my wings, wings became me. I banked, broke, beside myself. Besides, honeysuckle sang, and brooked words overran beds of pebbles, but see?— no meadow. Never was a meadow. Lots of long division, and times tables where once there were standing pools. If you played into them you got polio. Polished glass wading downstream, oaks barked spells, and hexed books cracked, spine-open. Those are facts. None of that sailor-ruby-sky eventime. Red robin, red robin, bash again, again against my window, feathers in flame —a fireman’s?—to get in. Or be calm. With lunatic squires in your bloodline, your beak-and-pockings won’t open more living room. You’re so enamored of mates you don’t know your mirrored yew from yew. So bloody your reflection.