This morning in the subway 
a feather whirled on the floor

in tight counterclockwise circles that moved it down the car.

We were all watching -- 
an Asian man with polished shoes

moved them to let it pass.

“There’s life in you yet,” I thought, picturing the bird from which it came.

But was there ever, really?

Is there life in our hair, our nails, our skin?

How many layers must you peel away to reach what’s truly living --

is it the heart, or the blood,

or the ceaseless tide-rush of air in the lungs?

No. All these are just containers for the nameless, urgent thing

that leaves the birdcage of the body

so silent

when it takes wing.