For some of us death is a black leather suitcase.
We carry it everywhere and savor
the smell and texture while unpacking
in motel rooms, hear the swish of underbrush
against its sides, notice rainwater
beading on the flat surfaces when we hitchhike.
It is full, and we are always surprisedó
a suitcase like sleep, or like the third brother's
pouch of wonders he got from and enchanted fox.
Then one day, at the bottom of all the shirts
and combs and guidebooks and underwear,
we uncover a bright bird hiding,
and it flies, looking neither right nor left,
through the ceiling on the whistle of its wings.