Some nights press
like a hand at the base of a throat.
We do not know when
precisely to enter the chorus,
but a kind of vibration
holds our sails open—
And we press back
at the darkness, wing by wing.
Some nights press
like a hand at the base of a throat.
We do not know when
precisely to enter the chorus,
but a kind of vibration
holds our sails open—
And we press back
at the darkness, wing by wing.