And I never did grasp the notion of wind,
pulling my kite inside so that I might hold onto the string
more tightly. And nothing pulses
in the crevices between these ribs to keep my thumbs
from jabbing inward, wonky and banal
in their attempt through curved, ivory pages—a fluttering skim over the contents 
of a squall, sending up deaf dust,
never to consider what might occur underneath an outstretched palm.

Yes, these insides spiraled into icy cobwebs
strung along hand-like branches beckoning—like
the off-white wedding gloves of an abandoned bride still
staring at a binding shape and expecting
it to take flight. And nothing flutters 
in the ribcage—these seas too strange for forceful squalls—
innards gulled into the refusal of letting loose  
and finding out how to be carried by hands 
other than your own.

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