How will the bones of the future
look, fanned out against the sky?

Sometimes a school of wings
rises in my chest, the air there

filled suddenly with movement
and volume, a sharp iridescence

of flight instigated by feelings
of ardor or longing, or that

particular sadness which comes
of not knowing— I can only move

like one leaf in a body of leaves,
like one thing borne on a current.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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