Bird, there is no instance of your flight,
just a sprawl of feathers in the sky,
a softness where I cannot lay my head,
no room beside the cloud in your big eye.
Bird, you flew from foolish lips to Texas,
gone before I ever said the words
that would have lifted me with them
if only their entreaty had been heard--
and I would cloud the sky then,
my bones would turn to blue,
but I would soar indifferent to dominion
and beat my silver wings into you.