What Can Never Fly

What Can Never Fly

Sprinklers have stitched

pale wings across the brick

of the university;

what stays behind is the

heaviest part never spirited

away,

here, in crevices,

a reminder of loss.

Thirst goes unquenched

in mid-winter

when I'm playing at flight,

cup after cup of coffee

the steam

hovering only,

frosting the glass

above the windowsill

this cold weight of words

threatening to bring down

my bookcase

into a pile of broken-spined blackbirds.

Spring will strike again

and again at these foundations, built to

ground us.