Each day I fly far
from the nest.
Through commerce,
through industry --
consumers of
human identity,
I pass unnoticed
as if a shadow
in a forest.

My body lifts,
made strong by your song,
and the fire

building in me flaring in my carrying me
                                                                         back
feathers intact from
the cracked cement
and metal, bent --
the brambles that creep
on our bodies in sleep.

from balconies the color of butter,
i write apology letters stained in leaky love
on paper wrappers of water drinking glasses
the pen marks are light
all the lines run over.

I am watching myself
from two years prior,
trying to find a minute to break the ice
and break it to myself
that i have missed some of the points

and some of priorities have been placed out of order
like all the letters
we scramble
endlessly
until there is one less tile,
and one less hello,
one more goodbye
and two more
'i don't knows'

i'm stopping the signal for a little while,
there are eight peaches rolling down a hill
and i've been watching for the cross walk
where almost all of them are stopped

(in the inside show of children
they pick them up like baseballs
and they laugh so full
thunder couldn't shake them,
they climbed so high
the balconies made friends with them.)