Held Aloft on Twisted Feathers
When still in flight but twisted — feathers turned to iron rust distancing the saving wind, clenched: the heart hurts here, clutching the places it holds to each wing barely enough to bridge, bound to keep whole, as defined by being in one piece — Suddenly a place between two oaks holds white flowers And again, after a space of darkness, a telephone pole lifts a surge of cumulous detailed in chiseled miles of light and not unwilling to fit inside the soul Later, when eyes must open against absence, fourteen vultures have found a thermal to heaven And when next it is needed (this is faith) the face of a newt, full sun beside a wall of dark rain, a dog standing on a small boat, tail slowly swinging, watching the ice chest come aboard
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