Gasoline sloshes, rings inside the can,
above the fumes the clean autumn sky.
Birds lift from the pumps,
getting where I want to be.
I drive home, ignore the rear view mirror.
My wings are borrowed, they don’t fit well.
If I could scrape together a bird in language,
command it to flap, squawk and fly —
the sky would be more forgiving.
In my work room the pipes leak, plaster drips
from cracked, chipping walls
the statues I’ve attempted don’t know themselves,
Fallen angels crashed, missions aborted, emptied out.
In the woods beyond, squirrels curl in thickets,
eyes sliced open, noticing, blended with the all.
In bushes, songbirds dance on twigs
like raindrops sinking down the childhood bedroom window
where I imagined being something more than what I am.