Wednesday, March 03, 2004

2nd version (see immediately below for 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 whiskers of the grass

I drop my feet in the muck
and go on rolling, tail tight held by these small teeth

my eyes closed to keep the soil out of them
hands released from bars

she clings to the arms of sagging chairs
her balance resistant, distant

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 follow
at the first tangle I have to sit down

outside it is cold as a little white fish bone
a new home overhead

heaven opened for the whole body

by hooked toes to the cracked skin
of the cedar a cicada’s husk clings until

a finger tears it loose
not one of these shoes fits, she says

loose skin but not empty

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