was found with menhaden
and a series of letters from you.
I weep for the Auk,
the last of its kind, alone.
with its feet on rock, its beak in the breeze,
and a feeling for you in its bones.
Is it the fault of the Auk that its dreams of flight
were scuttled by wings too small?
Was it soothed by Hughes, rent by Plath?
Did it feel anything at all?
It had no mate,
no egg, no day of comfort in the future.
Stuffed on a stand, it asked for your hand
to tenderly tie the last suture.