January robin, I want
you to live more
than I want you to stay
and I want you to stay more
than I want to live.

Stipple your frost-fitted feet

on the crunchsqueak of the cornsnow
lit up with its own freezing.

Your chest like morning-mouth blood
on the pillow for reasons

I’d rather not know.

Cold-cramped wing fly you
to Iowa for half-safety for these climes
will climb to your beak.

And all we hear from is heat
and melt.

Let that rumor your feather,
              fling you far.

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