wingtip
unfurling love and grief out toward the horizon
ou can’t see the spurs
forged in the metal of the gods
all you can see is thin skin
little mushrooms skeining together and down to the infrastructure
who are you
they ask
i am made in the shape of my mother’s conviction
convicted to die in the image of her god
all things pass
she will suffer
our exquisite corpses do not let go easily
i will suffer
why are we made of such sturdy stuff
luminous and attuned to the fried-egg sunset and the cool north wind
it would be easier to go out like a dandelion
instead of knitting and unknitting myself so constantly
bank west, fly east
i don’t have a destination in mind
idle musings upon a map that does not beckon
like your eyes did
or do
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