The male night heron
collects twigs; his wife
arranges them.
Babies gorge on regurgitation,
attesting to faith
in times of borrowed,
begging hope that
I will never know.
My work-nest could have been
built more temporarily.
Kafka, an insurance clerk,
crushing his soul.
I hawk degrees to
hankering souls; their faith
like borrowed wind that
I will never know.
How long will I sit in the marshes,
these mangroves adapted to live
where nothing else
can; I cannot adapt so
easily, feeding these
young. There’s only faith
in not holding junction
to the ends, to the fallouts.
I just energize, fledge them milk
and they will become fledglings
I will never know.
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
I write to break the psyche in half. What good are words unless they turn us upside down and shake us?
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