Myth can’t help but to look toward the lens
and wink. We’ve been boxed about the ears.

Suppose a war made us strong.

we’d jump into a pool of mosaic glass / our hair sleeked / wild as film sluiced from a reel

I molt and yet the feathers / never leave me. I, a wet bird, shake / off the soak.

Give me swill, give me / dirt between my follicles, give me sand / from your eye

The higher you climb the more you believe you are sky.