a place space reachable by a narrow silver thread on a Spring morning
when the wind is out of the north north-west at
8 miles an hour
not a cloud in the sky
there i reside
against the open wings of a sandhill crane
on a track for Calgary ....
there will be blue
tied with white ribbons of silk to the cycles of the coyote moon
a place reachable
an empty space to fill in
with all the spare parts; love, metal, matter & might
no anchor here
only feathered things that take you to blue
where
the sky tattoos your light
