A pale girl brushes soil away from
a large bird skeleton, wing stretched for flight,
made of milky white diamond.
The scars are honed and
perfected in the mirror, then seek
impressive sympathy in the flesh of another.
In his dreams songs are specks of grit,
slivers of ornamental glass battered smooth,
felt in the ridges of his teeth instead of tasted.
An orange tree is chopped down
still warm and bleeding amber sap.
The insects cede long prized labyrinth to fires.
As she wanders the desert
she can see only bones-- intensely fetal mesas
and dunes constantly calling to be fractured by wind.
As his hands press his fingerprints onto the notebook
he can feel the white paper pleading to stay blank
and rhapsodizing about stains with equally loud voices.
Once burned they are all light enough to fly
or free to alight on whatever is desired unnoticed.
4 years ago