Morning, and I walk past the man-made lake
where the bird gulls for light—I am just birthed
from Thor’s flash and spite—the bright white thorn of
knobbed sleep and the throb of light a risk of
life I feel important—survived
a part of the whole force that pulses past
but the dumb sea bird doesn’t stir, just stays
erect as a piece of the alphabet
waiting to burn clean its wings.
Under a blue-cloud-bespeckled sky
under the blue domed egg
who wouldn’t expect flight?
How small am I.
Previously published in Fence, Fall/Winter 2000-2001.