What Birds Meant

What birds meant on
the Chesapeake, the summer
I lived on the Atlantic;
just like when Icarus
tested waves rather than
wax, and buoys for their
rescue-worthiness. How many
crabs could scramble backwards
up into the light when oxygen
flagged. The only safe home
is air, the only security a
labyrinth of oils and minerals.

Next project: how to get him
to soar in a colder direction
with rockets at the ankles.
Wrong god, but the right division
between dust storms and orbits;
they’re stronger than myths
in abeyance; and what outrageous
growths between rings that
threaten to barrel through flesh,
and the white blood
devours the red.

Because it is not arbitrary
even if it is not forecasted
by bodies of fire, bodies of light,
bodies of no consequence to
life amid the war god’s rants.
There is no luck and there are
no chances. Ask the statue of
the Virgin Mary set to leap off
the ledge of a Baltimore apartment
complex. The circle it completes
upon landing, an atmosphere-clear
pool in the concrete, just as a moon
overtakes its planet.