You pounce my lungs as I lay waking and make your point
with an extended paw: Your toenails graze my cheek.
I place my hand on your tiny skull. It feels wired, jacked in
to the wall behind me. You act as if I’ve nested
hummingbird eggs -- navy beans, white pupils -- in my eyes
for the hibernation of late summer, now that the eclipse
is captured, the day grows steadily less, and grief steals inside of me.