If moving on were as simple
as the march of blue feathers
forgetting one wilderness for another,
then perhaps I would hop on
a magnificent creature,
its plume crimped together
in a ball of kindness.
But such creatures do not exist, you know, don’t know?
You know too of our tragic descent.
The eyes below,
hunters in winter.
Sometime soon we will find our chests emptied out.
Only some wind in there thereafter.
The wind that the wings of a flailing bird makes.
