Wings make us bound to what we love
so that we keep the labour of flying
in a desperate moment–a jocular force that opposes us.
Each sunrise, each hour,
every moment, sifting the jericho grasslands
reaching far above our halos
hip replacements, surgical connectors, heart transplants
the woven patterns that only silkworms eat through
breaking down the filth
fading with the twilight
the nests that welcome our drowsy eyelids
command them to close
these dreams, unconscious names for what binds us.