is it dangerous to wish
for those goods of which
are not I, are not me,
are not the breath that we breathe
upon the gentlest and free summer morning?
or the gleam of the beaks
perched humbly in the cradle
of the cuckoo's nest still adorning?
before their wings bare vulnerable
to the light of the wind and to
man and to bringing
their unsuspecting redeeming
to the order of clinging to the now;
or the we, or the me, and
the I, and the us, and
the beat
of the heart that keeps borning?