Birds of a feather have clipped wings,nlike a pair of bibles burning at their seams;nlike roses in the thicket lay unseen,nuntouched by all these awkward dreams.nnAnd the blind mannwould stamp out both our eyes,nand the wise mannwould ask us not to try,nand the dead mannwould warn us not to die.nnThe ground still reeks of Adam's bones,nand even the wisest could not know.nThey'd prick their thumbs and bleed out every holenfor a chance to rise and grasp Orion's bow.nnAnd the blind mannwould claim that he could see,nand the wise mannwould force his will on me,nand the dead mannwould beg us not to bleed.