Known already.

In the fancy resaurants.
In the dive-y-ist of dives.
Alone in the routine machine.

Workhorse yellows

And there's the voice
That became a dim echo
Back in grasp

Keep your hand palm up
Let it stay like a butterfly.

we called it:
shedding the skin veil

sometimes:
shedding the skin vile

Today I was the river
All of the pig carcasses had floated away
The current now calm,
water in smooth ripples
breeze
Soft of self and emotion
everything and all
and awake– in bed
blowing with the wind

'You were gone, man. A ghost.'
Welcome back

It's trajectory was manic and deliberate. Crazed.
The black sparrow diving directly into my left knee with such a force
It's beak impaling through the knee cap, splitting a canyon into it.
The bird flapping wildly–stuck– I reached down and with a firm grip took the bird
and pulled
What didn't happen was a surprise.
The beak did not follow the rest of the bird. Instead, it separated from the bird's face,
continuing to gnaw wildly through my knee-cap.
The beakless bird flies away, and I pinch my thumb and forefinger around the end of the chomping triangles in my leg and pull.
Finally.
And what is left, a large crevasse with blood red rock and sinew sunset.
I roamed the rest of my life with this vista.