January robin, I want you to live more than I want you to stay and I want you to stay more than I want to live.

Stipple your frost-fitted feet

on the crunchsqueak of the cornsnow lit up with its own freezing.

Your chest like morning-mouth blood on the pillow for reasons

I’d rather not know.

Cold-cramped wing fly you to Iowa for half-safety for these climes will climb to your beak.

And all we hear from is heat and melt.

Let that rumor your feather,               fling you far.