wingtip

you can’t see the spurs

forged in the metal of the gods

all you can see is thin skin

little mushrooms skeining together and down to the infrastructure

who are you

they ask

i am made in the shape of the arrow straight spurs of my mother’s conviction

convicted to die in the image of her god

all things pass

she will suffer

our exquisite corpses do not let go easily

i will suffer

why are we made of such sturdy stuff

luminous and attuned to the fried-egg sunset and the cool north wind

it would be easier to go out like a dandelion

instead of knitting and unknitting myself so constantly

bank west, fly east

i don’t have a destination in mind

idle musings upon a map that does not beckon

like your eyes did

or do