Every day we cope with the dream of flight,
We feed birds, and print them on our clothes.
We pick up feathers
Fallen on the sidewalk. Children wave at
Airplanes high overhead,
Almost celestial they are so high.
We kill insects that dare
To come hurtling toward our faces at night
On patios, if their limbs are
Long and thin, their forms alien, robotic.
We stuff our pillows
With feathers. Sometimes the stem of
A small white feather
Pokes out against your cheek, thorn-like.
You pull it out, a splinter,
A little fan, and wonder about the feather’s
Origin: did it ever fly?