Wings


One wing at first
Feather by feather
Like lint on a shirt congealing
At a branch of evolution

Then the next,
Sudden, more learned,
Scarcely born and goading its brother
Already to escape the ground

How high I can sit now
And naked

Watching my shell
Limp into the day,
An apple in a bag
And a shoelace untied


© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013