Fountain
A movement on the roof:
nomadic shifts, beaks, fins, claws.
Then a fleur of dust, a history
they have left behind to guide us
through the desert, where Bedouin
tents entertain with hot spiced tea
and lumps of papery bread.
Wheels are useless to an ostrich
or a leopard. The inverted pyramid
that is our lives, like a forgotten zoo,
is open and empty. Migrant prints,
shoeless and brushed by feathers
into wings of light, illuminate
routes to the fountain that lies
beneath our brutal gravity.
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