There were thirteen sparrows
somewhere besides here
and they were given gears
and serrated switchplates to help them fight.
Someone wrote about them,
mistaking the mechanisms and mania
for free flight.
A poem can fly without seeing;
I’d like to try looking down farther
than my feet but I’m afraid it’s just magma and shale. I’m not ready to be a fossil.
Give me wings and gears.
Who needs to be free?