Wednesday, March 03, 2004

1st version

She is going to fly
and I am coming to earth
a stone stood before the door
then stepped aside

the wings she’d torn from her back
caught on the long arms of the grass
I leave my feet in the muck
and go on rolling, my tail tight held by these small teeth

my eyes closed to keep the soil out of them
my hands released from the bars
she hangs onto the arms of aged chairs
her balance resisting from a distance

we will come back this way to look in the windows
but the soul won’t be in the room
it will be paying out a thread we will follow
at the first tangle I’ll give up and sit down

outside it is cold and thin, as a bone exposed by a flood
we put our grooved wheel to that rail
and the motion makes a soothing racket
a new home overhead

heaven took in the whole body
if it hadn’t, who could believe
a cicada’s husk clings by hooked toes
to the cracked skin of the cedar until

a finger dislodges the grip
none of the shoes fit her feet, she says
too much skin is empty
how can you hold it in now

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