with my wings stuck
to the sides. As I pulled them
apart they tore. So, I hung
in the air upside-down and swung

as a bat with my face
to the ground. But I couldn’t
fly. Twisted and folded onto myself
my reds and purples looked

tie-dyed more than anything
else. If I couldn't fly I'd sing. So
I popped off the top twittering. I'd
twitter in the morning as the sun

rose marmalade on a piece
of French toast. I twittered at noon
as the steam from the pavement filled
my trachea like a hot-air balloon. And I

twittered in the evening with
my friend the moon. And soon the twittering
made me rise. As leaven in the dough  
I rose up high. And with torn wings, now I fly.