You'll need a bone saw, and a skull chisel,
a scalpel and scissors. You'll need
toothed forceps, a basin of water—
you'll need time. But even with the tools,
even with a silvery light flickering on all that
metal, it will be difficult to detach
the eggs from the branches, the fiery dreams
from your sleep.
It's love that knuckles down, that struggles
to tell the tumor from the bright idea,
paring memory to bone and turning truth into
something better than monument.
There will be months and years when you can't
see, a gauzy past in the air and no light.
Then one day the flock lifts.