A Clown’s Wings

April 9, 2016

The wind’s sole source must be the mountains;
it’s motion, inconsolable.  The sculptor of
the world is blown sand blown around
by idolatries, by sequenced sand dunes,
not the winds per se, and they are not
the terror he’d thought them to be. The winds
would bring him peace—not so, the wings. They were
God’s tools, incommensurable with man’s ways.
You used wings to fly, for god sakes, used them
to go to heaven. When the clown found them on his back,
he found them suffused to his spine and soul.
When the wind blew, his wings lifted him up into the air.
The sky became meaningless, microscopic.
The sky became a happenstance into which he fled.


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