there’s a small wing in the hospital
that nobody visits
lined with thin, narrow beds
not nearly as comfortable as clouds
filled with little, winged children
whose moltings are tucked under their heads
ivory fingers to kiss at the crowds of
needles burrowing in tiny chests heaving
with discipled breaths collected
in jars and sold on the shelves,
strings of silver IVs pumping
them full of good will and faith because
nowadays there’s not enough to go around
for sickly, hanging halos to believe
in themselves

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