the empty birdcage
feed the multitudes on that
curled and sleeping in the corner
swaying above the shore
flight still dreaming of itself
in the birthplace of wings
the sea’s lift pawing at your feet
the sky’s blue filling out your arms
until a dove descends and settles
on the waste of stones and gray
did you really think the holy ghost
would crumble did you really
think the spirit could decay
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