feather
head, floating
a little this way,
a little that;
one current lifts,
another drives down;
no matter how I prop it up
with breath it will drop
at some point to the floor
where it will stir a little
now and then
but mostly will lie still
having found its lowest level.
at last, I don’t care.
the drift was movement
and what I needed to do.
that feather, my head
on the floor full of dust,
that’s my truth and my real face.
hollow, almost weightless,
a discard. you can’t look at it
and tell where it’s been. you know
it was made for flight and it’s not
flying now. that’s all you and I know.