It does not live where I am composed.
Not in the careful sentences, not in the tempered speech.
It lives in the far hemisphere,
in a body I will never touch—
a gangly theropod, disproportionate, wind-bothered,
lifting its unfinished wings
as if the sky had already agreed to it.
The gesture—
unlicensed, uncorrected,
with something in me answering it,
without restraint,
without shame—
unabashed.

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