A lift can start with words covering a page,
end with the pass of white clouds

filled in below with what were
solemn trumpets of hummingbirds,

these in dreams tastefully mottled
where between are your thoughts

to hand over and not hold conclusive
to all that’s otherwise angled, trying

to rest collections against the fence
before the wreck of a storm. Rest is

in the impetus of a silent nurse, passing
a hand over the ruffed skeptical brow

not yet blent with the touch of a thousand
colors. The tones of their wings dipped

in nectar coruscate this all elsewhere, in
currents that sweep the tables from houses

and leave the lonely sitting with bare laps
open, and so fly from chairs into a morning

of the oncoming night. A faltered traffic,
cool air swallowed down with warm sodium,

the footprints and shoes left for improbable
fathoms daring height with bizarre turns

while pack dogs snout tin cans of garbage
around about the solid done blocks of streets;

that actually is similar to flight, noting what
won’t be placed on your back or, at this point,

not in the railed gut either. Bareness of levity,
crescent sights, crucibles only filled with ghosts

of some future memories of desires echoed
within those small wounds of the home.

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