This fledgling state, this ongoing metamorphosis—
nobody said becoming was quick.
You ask if I fly in my sleep, forget all grounding
by way of dream.
This has been no easy consecration:
rites may need
in the wake of flukes that breach,
bellows that resurrect
You ask what’s the hurry, look to exposed brick,
run your hand the length of its filament.
How can I argue
with touch so deliberate?
And yet. And yet.
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