I once turned to swan
in the post-office line, the people
waning there with their parcels
and address stickers oblivious
to the enormity and genius
of my wings. Imagine a white
white enough, a tender
tender enough to suffuse you
to a child’s sleep
right on your weary feet?
But the ledgers and the pencils
and the stamps. The daily adhesive.
The bruise and bruise and bruise.
Take heart, oh beautiful people
of the post-office line. I hereby
lend you my ascension.
In my numb and glorious
profusion I enfold you
and your piglet grief.