Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Poem for my friend
They say you are the mosquito, friend,
wings beaten and heart small
all proboscis and no bite.
Little fly, they want to know
why you think you are a crane.
Let them bait you, friend, with the pulse
of white heat beneath their skin. They crave
the tickle of your mouthparts
working their skin. They wish
to become dragonflies, wish to hunt
and smear you.
Friend, you are the bike. Pedal driven and human
powered. Your frame the center of gravity, rotating
on a piercing axle. If you must support this load, friend,
you must find someone to clean your chain, your spokes,
your sprockets. Someone to keep you suspended, keep you
from rusting.
Friend, they say you are the pagoda, attracting
lightning because you were made too high. What
do they know of your structure? What do they
know of the charge that pulls you up, up, up?
You are the lotus, friend, that the pagoda
represents. Not the flower but the plant. Men
disagree about where your family should belong.
Why must they refuse to let you live this terrestrial
life, friend, just because you choose to sit on the surface?
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