Holes in the feather of a loon
Its beaded eye a light of passing
armor in its chest
a shield of swords
perched atop a pillar

There are rows of pins, and diagrams
He brushed the glass
they rested under.

Around him shapes emerge
and regard him
the curator, a saint of messes
His domain: of crushed muffins,
shattered plums

They pray to be held on his palm
To be adored and arranged
For objects wish to be given a name

The thrushes that gather round
their eyes glow among the brances
swing stiffly underneath his palm