The Romans carved wings
where no wings were,
adorning motionless statues
with heavy wings.
Had I wings to oar
through wild blue,
I would row through space
like a ship parting waves.
Wings would sweep
through space’s infinitude
marking time, a metronome
to stir heaven’s vault.
I would yield, suspended,
to the swing of the wind:
My aerie, you.

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