Wings that Swat the Sky
Wings that swat the stormy skylike garbage bags, acoustic black,
spoiled the motionless sunrise
and concealed the dead horizon.
Ponder the vacant depths one could clamber
through capabilities of a butterfly mind,
wandering parallel to the moldered ground.
In russet rivulets, one knows how to be alone-
cavernous eyes groping for a vision,
the swallowed tongue clapping soundless.
Yarn-string wings swat the balmy tempest,
boiling, bile-green clouds, like bluestem-wine;
ugly sentiments spewing from Earth's split maw.
Arched and reticent before the blow,
the mendicant speaks like an unfolding cigar.
The buzz of insects discreetly dwindles.
There comes a rustling,
tender, like cattail creaking,
and leeches as they swell.
Little shark teeth nestle softly
In the sediment of the riverbed;
Calm beneath the turmoil.
Visage refracting silence, brittle moment,
hot gusts tumbling from the viperous heavens;
before the python crushes the breathing carcass,
there comes a thunder of wings that swat the sky.
Poetry by Soup in the Sand
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2009-06-18 at 23:58
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ken d williams |
|
Editorial Team |
|
chuma okafor |
