If I can live without myself, what else can I live without?Trees, no. Breath. But. Lungs. Not.My friend's dad growing up had one lung.I thought about that.My cousin had no kidneys.We're all missing parts,but my question iswhen does the missing becomeall that we are.That crow shrieks from the wire.Me with talons. Imag1ne. Somethingcalled soul cut out of night andpasted on day. Foul bird.Ghosts. The grass under the feetI still have. Dirt under the grass.Thing is, I feel connected to you.No tendon or cervical spine butI've (whatever) spent timewith your body.I've felt your body inside mine.Inside, your body inside mine,appendages and crevices.Body inside a body. Wheel inside the old wheel.Sex is weird says the crow from his wire.How crows make love I type in.Photo of crows,stacked.Will I talk to youwhen you're dead?Will I visit your graveor some beachwhere your charred bones lay at rest?Will you be eaten by crows. (Vilebut everything that falls onthe earth becomes earth.You told me that.)You. You know who you areand you also know who you are. Me.Will I talk to sand? Will you talk to mewhen I'm sand? SometimesI go to the gym.People at the gym push their bodieshard on machines. Same way I push againstyou (special you) in the night.I hold on with all my might.I want. Is wantingall that we hold with our life?Is appetite all that we are?Will I be fed in the end. Will I feed?My friend's dad had one lung but his motherhad two. Together they lived a long timesharing three. They sat in their house.Same with you and me. We sitand wait for our wife, her two lungs,the wholeness she holds in the hollowshe has. We glance at the birdsthe balance they make onthe way we connect—that photo of you vibrates my pocket,a ping from tower to tower, and I'm betweenyou and me. All of the you's. All ofthe me's, a neck without itself, an openspace under a floating mind, a speckin the sky faint as a heated up cloud—a dim knowing: once there wereso many birds on so many wires.