My little spirit throws a fit
because my willing limbs are not a dog's
my span not a buzzard's
my bones are not hollow
and my blood is not wind.
My flesh not, like itself, a fire.
My little spirit kicks at my ribs
topples and smashes what's behind my chest
rises and racks the windows.
My little prisoner
looks at its home at the ends of my fingers
and all its kingdom they cannot touch.
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