Today, I am a swallow without wings.
I taste saltwater with my beak.
The ocean is warm like the sand that soaks
the sun. I am only a swallow without her wings,
no longer a part of the middle sky.
I fly only when the horizon meets the earth
between the spaces of morning. Night falls slowly
like silk. Day comes like a curling wave.
I walk on sands with my beak bent.
I am a swallow without wings, heading east.
I look for my wings along the holes in the sand.
I know it is a pensive trick, but this is what
I say to get by: “Look at the sky, and remember.”