Flutter of birds
through the dark hours:
the pounding mass of plumes,
with its hefty heart-like throb
cleaving a leaden crevice
in the eye-laden orb;
the scythe-like swishing bursts
that would become sustained
if their own echoes
didn't keep them moment-chained;
the fitful slashing slides
of a wing rotating on
its vein-ensnared axis
steeped in the brine of dawn.
I went into the garden,
the ground was inlaid
with tatters of blue cotton
cut out from the night's plaid.
I gathered up as many
of them as I could bear
and had a gown made
which I often wear,
I put it on, to hide
my own fragmented night
that slowly grows whole
with no wings at all.
Night Birds
© Copyright: Vlanes, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109063003861
Свидетельство о публикации №109063003861
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