John Williams

Inside the dreams of birds

 -after Rilke

there is still flight
          by migration,

a choice
     to shove off
           from earth’s
           tree-thronged nightscape,

     against instinct, without
     children nesting quietly—
              forever sated,

an escape
      cutting across
      communal trajectories

                (away from
        always it is
               away from)

       and alone

the empty sky
with its simultaneous
      sun      and      moon

      only in verbs
      and faultless mirrors
(a dreamt movement
through itself),

      slipped among feathers, a reverie
                six inches above land,

                                   you must change your life.

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