very free-form and at least two months old

[insanexflame]

When I was a child I wanted to live in trees,
build fires and eat pungent berries
and train a hawk to hunt for me.

I scouted for months,
seeking a nest.
I did not know then that I would find it at twenty-two,
on the backroads of New York:
red folded paper
and a glowing heart of empty space.

I did not know -- I do not know --

Because today I think that poetry is for
Rich Men Only,
and I wonder where the rest of us
find our falcons --

if we toil by day to sleep in sun,

if we let the loam rise up to meet the bark of trees,

if we drink in the musk of dawn and if we ever feel
the rush of wingbeaten air
and the tug on our wrists,
the tension drawn though tether
in one line
from hand through talons to a heart,
rapid and fierce.