Day after day up there beating my wingswith all the softness truth requiresI feel them shrug whenever I pause:they class my voice among tentative things,
And they credit fact, force, battering.
I dance my way toward the family of knowing,embracing stray error as a long-lost boyand bringing him home with my fluttering.
Every quick feather asserts a just claim;it bites like a saw into white pine.
I communicate right; but explain to the dean—well,
Right has a long and intricate name.
And the saying of it is a lonely thing.
