Flying Is Not A Fear Of It

It will regret such gentle restraint, remorse
is always a day behind. It hunches, invisibly —
like a sick sparrow’s releasing body,

cracked beak, marble eyes, feathers spineless —
but can’t be unseen. There is no flight
from here, just splinters of fleeing.

Everywhere is life. Bodies bounce like chicks
against unexpected windows, discarded
flesh hardens in a bowl. Plugholes

bubble, flush, decamp down drains in joyous
dereliction. Baptismal third eye.
Mornings plummet.

Here, two fists of fumbling wings —
unspeakable children — dropped.