I.
birds
wings
hundreds of thick angles
on a map of pale gold,
expanding and retracting
sharply --
a hidden body of italics
beating calligraphic strokes in
staccato, streaming
open
and closed
like a counter or a serif
preening into sunset--
a swiftly suggestive
diagonal mountain
in
tandem flight
II.
from my desk,
they look
like kids running out of school --
commas rushing out of a paragraph --
-- or a series of sixteenth notes
spreading eight octaves --
far from pauses or rests,
or tests.
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