All night. Taking it

slowly, the discourse, of these winged-things never to be

            understood, and I, a half-bird, understanding:

It’s not behovely to be twinned like this. And not likely

              to last. All night. Hera, cow, the man I call father,

in that swaying place. And the entire, collapsable world around them

                                                                                                                              lovely in its fight.