The beating of wings, fragments memory leaves--each word, each phrase draws us toward the sun: "I fly too high, / the sky there uncluttered by restraint.// I am torched/ I am metal I melt. I am molten. Unless I Came Back to Tell You soars, plummets, burns images into skin, remakes space into breath, turns a colon into a challenge, a cottonmouth into a river. Self is "a cave, a white cloud, an open mouth." We "Start with a word watch...
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Poetry