If Pigs Could Fly
the enso
"A Pig Prepares for Flight" by marlowe
the poem
then the lies we tell
ourselves, each other
would be halfway
around the world by now,
perched in trees, wings folded,
no way home. The streets
are littered with what remains
— an empty bottle, a dozen wilted roses.
Do we hope our stories wash
away in the rain? Do we
expect to leap from the ledge
and soar?
