spanish for bird (from Hunger Mountain, print only - no longer available)

i want to meet a man who keeps a clean, old paintbrush in his pocket. you know, horse-hair. featherdown. a man who keeps a pocketfull of feathers. the tips of my fingers have gone missing, numbed by a certain empathy for pending weather, autumn and all that comes after, a certain picking-up-of-habits, nailbiting as a sign of solitude, sorrying, emotional wandering, taking out your worry and wonder on yourself. i meet a man with a pink plastic-bag full of bones. a man collects birds. reads me winged words in the way their feet are flung. once i found a green bird, the color of a perfect lime in a picture of a lime. flavor-color that sweet pucker on one's tongue. a man leaves his window open all night. the pattering heart of a sweet-lime bird is flung into the sky and bursts into a star i get to name. i want to meet a man who lets me name a star. when i name the star i bite my lip and name it pajaro, spanish for bird. i meet a man who worries that it's too late for chickens. "it's never too late for chickens," i tell him. the moon is in my eyes. i meet a man in the dark. we sit on a green parkbench, breathing giant quiet tree-air. a pirouette of fog lifts the sky away from us, just a little. lets the edge of a secret in, under a crack in our grass doorframe. i meet a man who holds his cards close to his chest. a man who is sleepy. a man who keeps looking at nothing in the distance. who puts his head on my shoulder under the streetlamp and sighs, as if we were lovers instead of strangers. i want to meet a leaf-eyed man who whistles like flying, like slicing the clouds to nibbles, pictures, brush the blue away from my secret expanse of stars. exposition: i want to meet a moon-flavored man who will kiss me on the lips. .