Albert Goldbarth again

Here is a poem I steal from almost every time I sit down to write. I think it's at the top of my list (for now).

Wings

I always wondered why they called them wings.
--Perhaps because somebody always waited in shadow
in them, with a rope.
With a rope like a great braided nerve,
and while some sweet singing or a bloody melee
completely filled the central light, this person
would raise or lower the god.

* * *

It's summer. Hard summer: the land enameled.
I find the bird already half-dismantled
by ants--the front half. It's flying
steadily into the other world, so needs to be this still.
Do I mumble? yes. Do I actually pray? yes.
Yes, but not for the bird. When we love enough
people a bird is a rehearsal.