… I try not to disturb my broken wing.
I vault the sky – blue is a trite fancy —
the expanse, the clear color of longing
The horizon gives way
to empyreal heights
and delicious air, my face
to the eye of the sun
Is it indulgence or calling to ride
the wings of one’s own prayers?
I could sleep in the wind.
I hold onto this incarnation of
dreams but the sun revives me
from slumber on a pillow of dirt
and the sweet draught of
yesterday still in my throat,
I try not to disturb my broken wing.