xxxxii.

Mo' edit, mo' bettah.

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--I have always wanted what I cannot have

and like anyone deprived, of what is necessary

I cannot focus--

have been trying to tear it out of my soul
what--cannot--happen
with no success whatsoever 

--for the love of the Almighty I'd cut

it free, set it loose, must it die--must it die

like all the other times--must I fall,

for it to be free? Can I not launch it still

living from hand--if I could, wouldn't I see it

circle, sometimes, for the balcony? Wouldn't it alight

upon occasion, on a nearby branch--must it die 

down to nothing?

I'd send the past winging out into a late June night,

to cut trails above the hills, the streets alight

the buildings burning, the ridges afire and the wash

of the shadows come to quench them, to send up

the sweetness of sage and dust and anticipation

there, before the road goes curving, at the rise

with the hills towering above, to skim the porches

it's fleeting shadow a benediction 

on whoever greets the evening, with joy

--whoever passes under the shadows of these hills

intent and glad, and I'd have it

rest on your railing, awhile ago

stare through the window

sleek with potential
and caw once--then fly