Maybe you're wondering why I cling to your wake;
why I never hear above the wind between my pin feathers;
tell me your theories. I cannot explain myself.
I'm ignorant of how I look in my nightly whirlings,
no matter how many mirrors weigh correctly.
See if you can see me a way out of this tightness.
I started late in all things, in this lead balloon
race against myself. Through these lead contact
lenses, I've absorbed nothing into my half-life.
Maybe you're thinking that my magnetic brain
gives me the wrong directions, and I've been
trying you on like prosthetic wings that won't reject me.
Understand: I was born a prosthetic, cannibalizing.
It's what you do, when you're only two-thirds of the
way to yourself, and a broken time machine.
Understand: I've never been good at flying machines.
They consist of drinking straws and cup lids, and I
only end up crashing into other people's breakfasts.
I did not mean to salt myself at so young an age,
but let's sing a eulogy to my naked, sabotaged arms.
They float above me now, banging on horizons,
like sparrows trapped in an attic window.
2010 BRUCE V. BRACKEN
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