that barely leave
lips
these fledglings of
the tongue from tall
nests
fallen whose flesh un-
sung &
not quite feathered dares
that cusp
as if a spring about to
burst
were a word’s first
flurry & flap into
air
not what others
said of green
love
spread to very
edge
of maps lovers
glide
above but unseen
in what
one whirr silently
urged into flight
& on
verge of song
declares
Mario Petrucci
Illustration Nick Victor