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Alone now in the garlic aftermath
of friends at evening
I bow in praise and strap them on
the wings my kind father built for me
from flattened beer cans and surplus loneliness
raised voices and sexual silence.
They've been battered by history, mangled
almost beyond repair, yet again and again
I've patched them with small songs
dressed them in fresh feathers
good as grief.
I'm older now, not yet old.
I've read the runes of indigestible meals
kisses with teeth, caresses that claw.
I still look up for illumination
dancing new steps, dancing the dark
feeding scented sticks and rich butter
to the fire inside.
I fly this time in cooler light.
I fly this time in cooler light.
I fly this time in cooler light.
-- Don Shewey
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