Principles of Flight

I have believed in effort,

in the grandiose-

kin to the heavy gulls hung tense, crying on the storm,

hooked in the wind their marvellous blades whetting-

for the world was not made to touch.

Sometimes, like a briar-patch of nests

dabbled with eggs,

it sorrows; yolks hang on the thorns,

and wry little flower half-shells

blow in the crowns.

Or, sometimes . . . a conscription of dead trees

toss at the feet of Jesus

who hangs, still:

a palpitation of the intellect-

random, anonymous.

And so I soar on these troubling wings,

gaunt to the armpits,

persuaded higher than all that threatens my ribs:

the brown trees budding nails,

the shores blazing seasonal under me.