Do birds fear heights, the waywe fear living?Pigeons above all, alwaysso low to the ground,and squirrels, not avian but aerial, crossed wireswith cheeks full ofpreparedness,We risk so much to preparefor so little,The mourning dove is watchingfrom a higher branch this evening.Their wings are the green of the faraway part of the sky during thunder,They strike it richon a wire, before the mute storm,The atmosphere bursts like a trainthrough the neighborhood,The train has come to see what it can pummel, but everything has been cleared for its path,It is an arrow,Just the air breaks,and the sparks flick themselves untilthey burn on air and die.Composed of listening light,orchestral sleep is prescribed,Upon every eyelid, over goose-down or under bridge,The green pretense knows no leisure,Our dreams underneath its weight are dastardly,but doctor’s orders are rarely easy,Even the even-handed ones,It's only Wednesdaywhen the sky mimicsthe diamond’s light,cupped over my finger.All things, almost, you can neverhave cupped long enough to hold,So love becomes a marriage,and lightening a sound,so late, so late,In one baroque spring,could have been this yearor sixty-five million before,Dirt’s veins strike it rich.————————————–Vasiliki Argyris called us from Philadelphia, PA.voicemailpoems.org/submit/facebook.com/voicemailpoemsx.com/voicemailpoemsbsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.socialinstagram.com/voicemailpoems