and call its name softly,
until it hovers over me and I am clothed
in its shadow. Then I throw ropes
over it, pulling it down into the wound
that its body fits perfectly
like a fish-shaped cork.
Its wings beat frantically. I lash them together,
fold them carefully into a black
bundle on its back.
Orr, Gregory "Singing the Pain Back into the Wound" Burning the Empty Nests. Pittsburgh: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1997. 53.