"the bird(Falco sparverius)is not positive but negative" "the bird(Falco columbarius)is not a presence of the animal but an absence of the sky" your final three steps before reaching the porch : (a gyre) : a circle traced(against blue) against my straight lines (my directness is an act of hiding i make straight for my warren,my burrow,my hole) your feathers shift on the wing.a slight tilt ,and you're upon me your speed is zen,is extinction,is a mantra,is an ending shattered into its composite beginnings.your shadow,furious,flies around you like a flag.
i send(in this broken box)your map back to you(in your broken room).i have divided your things(often,divided the things themselves)into those which are heavier than air/those which are not(like dragon,griffin,pegasus ,phoenix/clay,silt,and stone) i draw(on this folded page)your roads back onto you(on your folded eyes).i have traveled miles into you,pulled distances from you(like thread from a tooth)like string from the stomach of a dog.i trace my routes over your arms,my paths over your back,my tracks over your hair ,my trail through your lips and tongue and tearducts(my trail through your palms and earlobes) i have dredged your roads to ensure safer passage.i have pulled the carwrecks from beneath the pavement,from beneath the grade,extracted from the gravel the dozens of holes which accidents have knocked loose.i collect these things.i keep every glottis and pupil,every opening of mouth,nostril,ear,every pore which falls to the roadbed when knocked free from the body.we can trip in these holes,rip a tendon and cut up our shins.we can turn on an ankle,break our bones by stepping into an ear,a pupil,an open mouth.i collect these things to keep you safe. i watch you through the windshield.you are bent,folded at the side of the road,your corners dogeared,your joints bookmarked ,your spine cracked(your spine shining through your back like a sword,like a tree,like a viper).i etch you into the windshield,carve your movement into the glass,engrave your pain,your folded truths,your wings(dripping with sweat),dripping with sleep.i sketch your flight into the sky. into the rain. i send you(in this broken poem)a new map of the bird. i collect you(in this folded truth)in this tracing,this outline ,this broken page.with two hands,i draw you into both the earth and sky(at once)at trance(at once). i am keeping all of your openings for when you return.
:: failed design for the new city ::
oblique,i am an angled eye,i watch as you write the new bird (over your shoulder,over trained hands and a careful practice,a practiced restraint) will you get this bird right? will your invocation freeze the oxygen into hollow bones and talons,talons you will rip across the suburban shield? you are not unique in this.many have tried to work the feathers into a new shape.many. you see them beside the road,dressed like hawks and owls ,like owls in sunglasses asking for spare change.asking for a ride back to langley or newmarket or sherwood park. advice(from a vegetable farmer) from an old man: i hate my neighbours but if it wasn't for them i wouldn't know where my home was. you sigh.drop the pencil.into this bird you have no words to inscribe.its weight (though slight) overcomes the surface tension of the paper.the paper collapses (into a broken trance) into itself
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