To me the din of futile flapping speaks
like half a wriggling worm
warns of shovels.

Starving for reality,
Settling for mythic sentiment,
then shackled!

When flight should have been learned,
no mentor found.
Lonesome zombies’ protégé
designed to feed as eagles, but
scrambling for slow insects,
free of hope’s passion.

Think we,
the sun shines as an insult?
the rain descends to flood us?
The earth softens to mire us?
and eagles soar in arrogance?

    Within the wheels there is a call
    to consider these more clearly.

Windows have a way
of opening on the wretched.
Pinfeathers have a way
of growing unexpectedly.

June 1997

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