Inside the dreams of birds
-after Rilke
there is still flight
unimposed
by migration,
a choice
to shove off
from earth’s
tree-thronged nightscape,
against instinct, without
hunger,
children nesting quietly—
forever sated,
ignored—
an escape
cutting across
communal trajectories
(away from
always it is
away from)
and alone
the empty sky
with its simultaneous
sun and moon
speaks
only in verbs
and faultless mirrors
(a dreamt movement
through itself),
slipped among feathers, a reverie
six inches above land,
tomorrow
you must change your life.
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