I watched the last chick struggle from his shell,
Through wet black blood and shaves of wood that stuck
To his small feathers, wizened, tired as well,
Beneath the heat lamp. Then, by adverse luck

His small right wing was wired by thin vessels
Of membrane he’d grown into like a seed
In soil; which clung, Calypso’s gifts. His wrestles,
His jumps and thrashes spoke a living need.
I picked him up, and clipped the calcite crust
That bound his limb. He shook a little, drank,
And dropped his birth-slicked head down in the dust.
Both bead-black eyes squeezed shut, he shrunk and sank

Into the trick-toy breathing of his breast:
A sailor wrecked, washed up, by sleep possessed.