by Jay Griswold
They don’t want to come out of their shoes
And leave on the air the embarrassing odor
Of things that live farthest from their heart.
They don’t want to be skinned from their woolen cocoons
Like flat blind worms.
They dwell with us in the darkest nights
Without a notion of love to comfort them,
And yet become the ones we expect to rise
On beautiful wings when we set out on a journey.
And they have been known to cling to an edge
While the whole weight of the body sways inside of them.
They alone have no fear of looking down
Into the earth, where they can feel the old power.