Every Morning Song

The way that morning air is peeled, chewed,
cored, pinched, pulped,
skins like blown plastic bags, petals snowing the rain
cradled by, snagged in burying disquiet;
the way we sang
discarded beer bottles rain-filled just right
at the dump. Each thing called its name
winged from the backs of pickups upended, emptied.
Names that sparrowed
while we lanked around after the glint of wings,
cages at the ready.
That air same air as this, decades later:
tetanus and treasure
voicing and listening for a reply,
every asking thing singing an impossible scale.