(...heart is)

A wingless bird walks the edge of
shadow dropped down from a cloud.
His hurt elegance will shape the sky.
A wing disembodied, aloft and inspired
burns its image through my eyes. All I can see now
is half flight in the half light. Waking
to the wind crossing the rim of a careless night and
knocking the moon loose from its root.
It withers and falls, from and with
grace. A perfect fruit, never too ripe
and you needn’t bite,
to taste.

I keep to this street until
one of us ends. My address will not
go home (is where the … you know). A number, a name,
a code, returned to a sender
that also moved.

A name not lent to sound but taken shape and deep internally.
One softening key repeats as form itself: a form of speech --
skeletal, multilingual, calling open entire cities in me swinging
on their hinges. Past one helpless threshold, someone’s typing
while it rains. I can feel my eyes rising out of
brushed on paint. Art is in the making -- a still damp portrait.
There will not be a finished product.

There’s a door that cannot answer, it was left
UN-named. And a door without sure closure.
It’s without a lock. Ever interrupted, ever passing
through and through you, these two
become the same.