Longing
Dec 1 2010


The flightless bird
looks ridiculous.
A fat body
on stick-like legs,
waddling bobble-head.
Prehistoric feet
awkwardly grasping at earth.
It adjusts its useless wings,
iridescent, elegantly feathered
longingly feeling for air.
Gracefully stretching, then tucking them in
against a well-muscled breast.
That has yet
to atrophy.

A fish out of water
flops spasmodically,
one unblinking eye
aiming directly up.
Into heaven, perhaps,
a bright and endless sky.
Scales glisten, drying quickly
fins gritty with sand.
Its delicate gills flare,
drowning
in the thin sharp air.

A man, in the darkness
of an arctic winter
desperately longs for the sun.
Not so much heat
as light, and shadow,
the going down, the rising up.
He remembers how tired he was
sleepless, all summer,
when sun penetrated everything
boring relentlessly in.
Now, just a glimpse
would reassure him,
the world might recover
from ceaseless night.

He sleeps, constantly.
Like a land-locked bird
unsuited to earth.
Like a beached fish
turning putrid.
Still trying to find
his element.