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There, in the slurry of shadows.
Bulging imminence. To pick a shape from the grey
is to peck out the eyes of the blind.
Perched atop the tower, yesterday flags behind
the slow motion gravitas. To guide the peace
from age to aged, dark to light;
A choir of virgin plumage soars through
our fingertips and onwards out of sight.
An echo of single similarity.
Did it hurt when you tattooed the sky,
streets and surf with your own beady image?
With each greying kiss, your burden buries deeper.
Skeletal shells of flames.
The crooked hands from crooked bodies
lurch into one another and clutch at the sky.
Watch the birds fly
(Sing, Squark and squabble)
in their talons; a little slice of heaven.