wingless
but oh do I ever
know how to bend
*
the sun, perhaps,
or a stick—for the bug, always
a reason to sing
*
at the precipice
I did not yet know
I could fly
*
falling apart, falling
apart, each misshapen piece
perfect
wingless
but oh do I ever
know how to bend
*
the sun, perhaps,
or a stick—for the bug, always
a reason to sing
*
at the precipice
I did not yet know
I could fly
*
falling apart, falling
apart, each misshapen piece
perfect