maybe wings don’t matter as much

There should be
holes in the sky, ashen.
if dry for the second; clouded
trees fill the space, dust-
y green and blue, for miles
of tinted land.

None of them call to me.
I’m an indifferent animal
barely crunching stones
lif/ soles
above branches
so as not to snap.

Voices without footsteps;
how the sound carries
across fields. When there’s
nobody to block it
but frogs.

I am watched by a moth
trying to get by
my larger shape.
me too, I think.
me too.


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