among the torn silks of phrase

red, recumbent wheels
feather-weight on the ground
this is a game; a cardboard
cirrus-cloud dream for
tendering imagination.

'do not stand on the wings.'

propeller stung motions,
beating back the space.
a lazy lighting hands that
dream to fledge (we pick
up feathers from sidewalks).
i who would cross oceans,
i will watch while
caravans bring to us
our belongings.