The poem before Wild Geese is called, Rage.

“there will always be birds”
after Mary Oliver

These days,
I am so tender.
Like the belly of a bird.
A full billow scraped
of feathers, naked
from the tearing of
the very sky I soar.
Too fast.
Too trusting
that the strength
of my own wings
will carry me,
even in sleep.
I didn’t see it coming.
That raging of air that
was supposed to cradle
the weight of this avian body
that seemingly – floats.
Until the sky choked
on it’s own breath.
Swallowed my wish bone.
I am sliced open
and frayed.
Still spiraling to earth,
waiting for the inevitable
concrete crashing that
will undo the rest of me.