for the birds
often i think i might disappear into thin air.
i’ve thought about where i would go
and every time i do i have wax wings
and i am sitting on the power lines above the town
watching everyone exist.
how do the birds do it?
sit and watch knowing they will never love
like they do in the movies?
then again, maybe they do
and we just don’t see it.
maybe in the background of every tragedy
are two grand fluttering things
falling in love.
to be the grand fluttering thing
in the background of your story
sitting on the curb like a motif.
to be grand at all,
musical and glowing,
i would dream up a thousand wax wings
and fly too close to the sun
over and over again
for a moment of holy light.
i’ve been unmade, and it’s overrated.
i much prefer being pieced together,
like this. by the sunlight.
by the thought of flight
and the way it has its own language
rabid and crazed in my body.
tugging me forward.
saying live. live. live.