the politics of flight

Birds dive-bombing the concrete
they are saying freedom they are saying
IT COMES AT A COST – their wings
flatten the sky: a two-dimensional a backdrop for conversation, framed
for the language of colour
for the unspeakable flight we know nothing
about. Our brown sparrows; small, intricate wings
fit between a fist the explosion of flurried feathers
the weight of nothing, of papered bones, against the feudal tide of wind
thinking, they are small, it is natural to die
thinking, birds die in flight, birds hit concrete nameless
thinking, the terror of watching freedom
and yet, the bird wins
as the bird lands gently
without knowing terror
and the sky is returned
and the horizon is rising
straight line after straight line
the smoke and ash of crushed and rebuilt
so much like sunshine the dust motes
simmering soundscapes like notes written in cursive and us saying
this to you: what research, what significance and weight, oh
how lush oh how oh how it is
oh of course, oh –
what dreams to feed on, the worms that live underground.

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