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On Dead Wings
On dead wings I flew,
A black-white comet
Curving below the moon.
That orange disk I beheld
As it rose, a burning giant,
I sank into the swells.
Heavy blue overhead
Seeped through plumage,
Dyed red my breaths —
And I woke.
Feathers beneath my cheek
Encased in white silk.
The morning is cold.
I fold the sheets, mood bleak,
Somehow, like the toll
Of a rusted lead bell
Has been laid with grace
On my guiltless brow.
My hands recall
Upraising the killing rod
Eye grazing swift fowl —
On dead wings it fell,
Dauntlessly it drowned,
Gone before its punctured throat
Could choke on foaming froth.
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My mind was caught on the words "on dead wings," so I wrote this poem.