VII

Hold my hand the way you would a broken wing

in its lines is a blueprint for writing and flying.

I was volitant, I was free, so why these shackles

binding me down to airport terminals, static temples without candles.

What angels saw their harps sequestered at security forsook their

wings on this metal desk threw their haloes away disgruntled.

Hold a wing's plume on behalf of my shackled hand

write gently of the years when we flew without tickets.