forever taking things apart, not quite
piecing them back together: that was all
we knew, in those idle days of quiet.
our pretty words were leaning how to crawl.

before long we found that we each had wings
that made doorways difficult to walk through.
the worship of imperceptible things,
looking back, without, should have been a clue.

but a series of truly insignificant detours
could not sustain—o blue!—  
                                                    the flight  
                                                        ­     we knew
                                                                ­ as recourse.