7/12/11
you poor, beautiful thing
my mind and voice repeated,
a sort of singing mantra
mourning the perhaps death of the creature.
I did not know you lived in this place
I did not know if you lived
but I hoped you were dead.
Because you were missing part of a wing
and I could not bear to think of you,
flying through the night lopsided.
A beautiful quiet thing, broken and alone.
I would have preferred you dead.
but I returned the next day
and you were gone,
leaving me the memory of you
and your soft surprise wings.
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