The slip, white belly of a bird
must feel like its own bed,
an overturned pillow, windswept
and cool, clean and drifting off
to another hour, half known,
climate of plain light.
The damp coil of her hair
pressed against my shoulder after a night-
shift, feels like an ache I cannot stretch.
The slit of the morning curtain,
the slow oscillation of the whirring fan.
I was flying again, out over the Point,
and this time I almost got to land.
Denver Quarterly: Volume 42, Number 2, 2008