Some poems refuse to be written, over and over. This is a rewrite of a poem that seems to have a hold on me
September Swallows
September swallows
Knots
on wires unbinding,
as though their true selves,
too long furled,
must hone their aeronautics.
They lift from the wires
into giddy flight,
like crochets escaping staves
for the grander arias of global skies.
Career, dip and wheel;
a restlessness in their DNA
compels them; tomorrow,
they’ll be arrows, Morocco-bound.
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