Hair surge, low swoop—
so those of us
stuck here on earth
know—you should be divine beings.
Or on the other hand companions of divine beings,
conceded shots
to push off into sky,
allowed shots
to hear so well
your own particular voice skiped
back to you
maps the night.
Each pivot
in your wing's
a demonstration of creation.
Every creepy crawly
you snick out of air
a witness.
You change
obstructions
into sounds,
at that point avoid them.
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