It isn’t easy

to mend broken wings.

It takes time

and something else.

Ask any angel

you see

walking down the street

weighed down

by unspecified cargo,

or,

those that are

touring the backs of their brains

in search of Velcro explanations

while the midday winter sun

lends a blurry white pulse

to the seconds … moving …. slowly.

Or fast. Too fast,

and then a sudden wreck,

a crash course

on what it means to be

a human

who has forgotten

that they are an angel

waiting to reclaim themselves

as straight up holy,

no savior

or guru required—

it becomes,

whether under

a winter or summer sun,

whether under a cherry moon

ripe for plucking,

or a golden one

chastening lovers rosy touches,

it becomes

a matter of found memory,

and mending—

not easy

when there are no feathers to trace,

no flights from Point A to Z

to verify unfettered

aerodynamics as real—

not at all

easy

when life, reasoned as the Demon Barber

from Seville,

has executed so much serious snipping

and brutal shearing

and you are left

mirrorstruck and heartlocked

twisting in the wind

burning up inside

questioning why why why—

no

it isn’t easy

to mend broken wings,

and understand that there are many

who cannot abide

or condone or support a healing

so foreign to their clockwork faculties—

even the mention of wings might drive them

into a fit of despair

masquerading as decency or common sense—

but know

that there are those

who have slipped outside of time

to notice the thin blue needle and invisible thread

working together

to stich marvelous

purls of symmetry

into dream-time currency

irresistible to the core.