Radical Society, Fall 2006, Volume 32, Issue 3 (print edition only)
When the season ends, we flock South
to the house of unfinished poems.
Tired birds, we crowd in its rooms.
Though close enough, our wings
barely touch. They sweep the dust
off the floor, the cobwebs off the ceiling.
We have never tasted their full
wingspan. Sometimes we forget
we walked all the way to this place
before doors closed behind us.
Tame of heart, they call us, those
who have never
flown themselves, while we fill
the sunless air of this home
with feathers, each one airborne.