If no one on the ground or ocean
was injured when he turned to a noun
what was the loss? His wings were waxen.
He should have known the risk but wanted
always to be a verb: pure motion,
wind on his chest as none could have known,
distance and gravity forsaken.
Simply to be a verb he mounted
higher above the sea, the warming
sun on his back a false homecoming.
Truth was a disappointment. Even
imagination failed to keep him.
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