In daylight, the sky is different, its blue hues
doming over browned and silent fields,
all indigo and premonition.
The sky is nothing more than a mirage:
Still, who doesn’t want to be a confusion
of wings in this burning country? To navigate
from one darkened edge to another, to
map even the most quiet of voices in silver,
exposing each star-spun womb
like a wound to air.
— Mary Stone Dockery