Wings are things meant to soar,
underscore the door lingering lackadaisically painted a dull drool,
fools holding hands frightened at the coming mountain peaks,
their stomachs leap into their mouths and out,
oh that fear hooks you like the crescent moon,
wide-mouth fish absently swaying innocently,
linguist thumbing a clavichord warbling at the noon,
baker supine sipping wine whispering, “a little too late dear,” obdurately,
veering left that jalopy is exhausted puffing ten-packs a day,
those jumper cables virulently infect that engine,
this fork sticks them like raw meat,
their feet scathed,
completely rapt by the horizon,
lips shut as if the words are all lost,
she grows those wings onerously jetting into that great blue,
he quiescently sits cross-legged peering at the shadow shrinking,
thinking, “upon which way, stay, go, or perhaps…I don’t know,”
his heart blossoms skyward shredding the heavens,
he’s rooted into that former,
patiently contemplating everything latter,
“better than running away,” he prays.
