I saw a sand­piper trace the place the sea

rubs her belly on January sand. Only, this bird,

it was missing a foot, so I stared, hard enough for tears

to come, then looked to see if we were alone,

in case some dream­ing mix of impos­si­ble people

was waving their arms at me. It was gone, not the leg,

just from where what­ev­er you call a bird’s ankle is, and still

you one-two skit­tered that salted seam, like it wasn’t.

And I thought of all the ways I could save you—who

I could call, how you would come into the cup

of my hands and I’d keep you close to the smooth

skittle snaps on my too-yellow-for-January jacket.

Just before I began plan­ning your nest in my nightstand,

you took wing and went without warning or even

a wink. And now I’m a child under finger clouds wagging,

you silly girl, in my deflat­ed balloon of a coat.