I keep stumbling over
the Everyday, rearranging
round my head the syntactical bones
of a lark
I keep straining after Voice
Bird or Bee, I read
Emily D. at the light
on Central and Grand
I keep whispering about Faith
in wrecked plans, abandon
and musical stands
of giant Cottonwoods
But if I could free
rather than keep
songs instead of sighs
I’d step into the sky
without wings
