The robin lies as if
waiting for wind

to tear from its breast its sun
burst feathers. Head and neck wrenched

sideways, still lifelike, one eye
glints a speck of sun, sun
in the center of that black
eyelid stitched white. To touch, I

bring my hand close. The wing
lifts. From a burrow in its guts
a funnel of tiny winged bodies

spirals out. Growing sounds
raise the body. Waves of nausea

break over me.
Guardian wasps

feast in the hollow.