by Michael Creighton
Years from now,
we may smile and sigh at the sight
of a horribly misplaced comma
or a ball badly thrown
by a woman in shoes
the color of sky,
but right now, all we can see
is this paper kite crashing,
smoke rising from a corn-seller's coals,
and beyond, that thing with feathers
hanging high in a mulberry tree,
spread wings brushing
leaves and blood-red fruit.
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