Offense is a proud, pretty bird
preening her feathers just so,
resplendent in attire
crested and crowned
looking down over the world

without warning,
the wind dares to
tousle her hair--
affection between
connected hearts, between
friends, between
the flier and the flight

the bird shrieks
at her ruffled feathers,
the caring gesture,
and the good intent.
she broods
she resents
and she preens

when she is ready,
the wind does not come.
she shrieks at its absence
as she did at its presence,
but she can't put her pretty feathers to use

one day my feet will just let go
of the ground,
and I will fall into the sky

I will walk without waver
hand over hand over hand
on the power lines,
an act on the electric high wire
that this circus won't see
because its patrons fail to look up

and since nothing is grave
without gravity
I will sing to the birds
a melody they have never heard,
a legacy tended by mockingbirds
in the lullabies
they offer their young

and as I tumble on through the sky,
I will gaze on this bright planet
over a scene reduced to green-blue
and the seamless blend
of wonder and disaster

and I will face the black
open arms filling with stars,
then I will put on my coat
as my mama told me
so I'll not catch cold in space

The sun and the sailors were still asleep when the red women came. They painted the sky scarlet before the first golden rays chased them away and onto the ships. The sailors were aroused by the sound–like a thousand singing sirens had risen out of the sea. Their voices were like the ocean itself. Rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide. The captain appeared with his men, and the world was quiet. The red women took them then, and both men and women of the sea sang–rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide–and the sun fled with the onset of tempest. In the end, there was nothing left. No storm, no ship, no men, and no women. But the sky was painted scarlet and chased away the last golden rays, and now the sailors delight in red nights, but take warning at red mornings.

I haven’t come to rest
on your porch just to
be accused and then
arrested. I just need
a rest from the world.
As for the rest of you,
I don’t suppose you’ve
stirred from the comfort
of the armrest, though
some have surely suffered—
cardiac arrest and all.
Here’s where life’s
symphony rests—
a pause between notes—
not because it wants to,
but this measure calls
for it, two beats.
I haven’t come to your porch
to rest, but I feel the sleep
tickling the edges of my
eyes with the lack of inertia
that plagues the subject
at rest.