From the Fishouse

Beneath the bridge, swallows mold the mask
of a woman’s face,

clustering mud and tufts of hair dredged up
from a ditch,

leaving an interruption large enough to enter,
to spit wings,

which is an odd way to invoke annunciation,
a sudden blow.

The bones are narrow, so the birds take turns.
When it’s over,

the ground below whitens.