This next short section is part of the longest
poem in the manuscript, which is actually called "And Wings Made
of Matchsticks," but I'm just going to give you
a little taste of this one.
"And Wings Made of Matchsticks."
"To mold and be molded from, when were we no longer children
playing with sticks?
To create fire implies nothing of being of fire.
When did sticks contort, refigure to metal and gasoline?
How far from these nests built inside you,
say cranium, say that muscular organ sitting in sac?
Shake your head while you speak.
Say throne, fallen and fallen.
You unpack vocabulary, let letters tumble from your jaw.
You stand in a landscape of words, words,
and borrow and break, and mend, what wield looks like."