I fed on what I fed.
You held the air
like lungs hold it.

I’d imp you:
splice a borrowed quill
to the broken pinion,
knit the wing to bone,
call it mine.

Come to the fist,
the altar where they
alter what they keep.

I cannot hold you
past the door’s slow close.

Hang at the lip of the stoop,
altared in the act of falling,
gold and not descending.