If our bones were hollow, fingers &
arms feathered for flight. If from
rooftops & telephone wires the globe’s
curved edge, puny & dispossessed,
registered as bright dawning.
But we are not birds.
Out of these thousand folded
cranes see the one who flutters to
the plumage of your uncaged heart.
Let the bridegroom in his penguin
wedding suit comprehend your
singular notes. & like our wingless
cousin, icebound & congregate, hasten
to your beckoning cry. Hasten to you, fly.