This was once the picture of a man; now it is a puzzle in which none of the pieces fit. . .
she didn't know if it had been poorly cut or if it was a case of mistaken identity.

I understand the subtle dialects of birds
enough to know the eagles, the owls, and the ravens
all taunt me with the same, ecstatic claim:
Your ducks are mine.
Your ducks are mine.
Your ducks are mine.