Rind and yolk freefall, infuriating
the gluttony of birds to brine

like the rocks we dredge from skin
we banish our molars to roughage

and this loose code of written day
wings toward remainder
like the prying bones of some dream

What rain could not capture from breath
tilts upward

and we are grown over a cuticle of sound, askew.

Erin Radcliffe