Yes, our great world bends to fit her warm breast,

her long bright wing curving across seas, skimming

hillsides, sun-soaked, shaded, every slope

drawn toward her downy glide. She alights

in a village, within a cluster of girls

beading bracelets at the edge of a Field. They watch her

as they would watch a feral cat or porcupine,

curious, wary. I'm wary too,

of my own longing—could such soft feathers

ever brush the curve of my shoulder, pause,

invite my repose? Would I then feel

the thrum of her breast thrumming in my throat,

knowing how great was my fear, how immense my desire?