Morose wave lapping at my feet, I
listen: a low groaning stretched over
the water:

you enter the harbor, a great ship,
majestically soot-covered,
limping as a hull limps.

Like a spy, you know all the channels.
At the shore, silent now, quickly now,
the bastard skeletons dive:

I feel the ripples,
toes in the water.

You are
nearby.

I will set the bones in the valley
of my palm, until the joint snaps
back into place.
I will knit your skin to its
former glory, if you

let my fingers wield the needle
and thread like a finely-tuned
instrument,

until you are whole,
and wholly mine.

I didn’t recover flight
after my last brilliant
attempt.

Nor will I, if that’s
them meaning of this word,
“Free”.

Are there things meant
to bind ones feet to the ground?

Maybe. This cage is
so beautiful, and
so full of gravity.

What is it that
you want?
What’s keeping
you from it?

No, not the thing
itself.
Not that.