responding to Béatrice Machet #19 Always Flying
Not when the rain emptied like a fallen pail
crashed to earth
isn’t it always the way not bunting or passerine
wingspan and wistful.
Clawed pulled flesh is just another word for skin
giving in to gravity the movement of time
unfeathered on the beak
you could call it by another name
please not youth
that’s a different bird.
Fleeting a lost blur against the sky
or how I missed the good stuff
due to excess
sturm and drang swifts and swallows
it all comes back to flight
and now just the path.
A structure any
shaped like a figure of eight
twisting back on itself
counting from zero magnetic map
the musky scent of consolation
what can cannot
be borne aloft.
Migration is as risky as love
opening the body
to change storm
predator
fallout.
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