Great blue hand of the sky
rolls fire through its fingers,
splitting it again and again,
stretching longer and longer
until it is spun as far as it can be-
broken down into shining fragments we call night.
Until then it fights hard
to stay in the center of the sky, loving
to be watched and felt so far away.
Sun on the backs of each living thing, sun down
to the tissues that are hidden
and sweet with life- kidney, stomach, heart
guiding the way.
Warm them up good, melt them down pure, clean
with light straight from the sun’s mouth.
They come out as smoothed back as a wing
folded under with function and flight,
perfect and precise, made of bones
so weightless they belong to the sky.
Tucked under bird’s wing are so many
of man’s wishes. How long
has he envied such flight- his feet and legs
so heavy with earth?
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