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Why, when the world sleeps
do the young starlings fly,
black wings on a moonless night
challenging winds of southern flow,
fighting urges forced by
internal compass points
to land where it is low
and voices creep from behind
misted shuttered windows,
murmuring moans
and tethered breaths,
fingered flesh in candle flame,
longing scraps to fill their bellies
for hunger persists
even in the throes of love,
and they wait on silent branches,
crooked beams of support
wanting merely a taste…just one taste