Will viewpoint shift with my spine’s slow
compression, or will this
window admit only true images
in the shortened days to come?
I pencil phrases on bone-shaped kites
and release them to the afternoon.
Call them prayers, name them moans.
Each string is a regret freed, a separate
skeleton, let go. My two selves shudder
in the attempt. I await the perfect breeze.
“Kites” first appeared here in July 2016.