but the bird doesn’t know it. The bird is thirty birds who soared
out of dreaming to invent sky, thirty birds flying in the formation
of a bird. God tells them, Open, O moon-beak O silver-black O sliver
of luck, and the bird says, Break me until I’m whole. God says, Empty,
and the bird spills a splendor of jewels from their thirty beaks into
the valley. Don’t think I’m a diamond, God says, Find me, and hands
the bird a map back to the inside of its own bone, then disappears.
But the bird doesn’t understand the quest(ion). Thirty birds split
into a thousand that search under everything—stone, fabric,
sun-face, gold—until they find no God. Now the beak yells, Take
me; I have no reason, and an arch of wing lifts sun-up towards light,
and a thump under the chest answers, Yes and yes and yes and yes.