Dew clots into ice on the iron edge of the darkest
timeline, the age of suffocating
clouds, the edge
of the obfuscated day.
This child needs your help, and will not need
you forever, and wraps herself
in you, and wants
attention right away.
Your wings are institutions, and therefore
too slow.
They weigh you down, although
they also serve as counterweights, and keep
you oriented, so that, at least,
you can message your most vulnerable
charges, telling them all
they need to know in advance
about the bare knees and rough gravel
in the only apparently tamed city outside,
about the sleet, about the silvery, chill,
labor of your so-called
independence: when or who
to trust, and how to fight, and where to hide.