ROLL, AND NOT FLY
I pass by here with my soiled
wing - soiled, I said, not broken.
One thousand things not right I
go rolling by, seeing the pastiche
of reason that makes men fly. There
is no hinterland here: Round Robin
and a harlequin ghost. How do we
define an indefinable edge? At most,
it's but a hint and a nudge.
-
Paper airplanes define the sky:
written on wind, like kites they
fly. A scheming makeup of that
which passes. Heart. Arms. Limbs.
And I, making things up as I
roll on by.
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