This one can’t fly: he’s got
stubby wings, he’s old
as space or time; he’s gone
to fat. And now he even
disregards the omens that he never
should have learned to read
at all: blistered skies,
the sticky secrets
in the bowels of toads.
He’s used up his store
of magic, he’s half-blind,
but he’s crusty
as good bread and willing:
in the moonlight,
he struggles up the shadows
towards god, hears
the wheezing orchestration
of embodied lives
— he always sings low
his one hoarse note,
always tumbles down to where
we save him again
and again he falls
like a hailstone
from some heaven
and we will save him.

Renee Ashley


One Response

  1. Nicely imagined and so humane.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: