There Are a Grillion Flightless Things

it would appear: At least ten thousand
wings fell here. They're in my coffee
and the tulips' cups. My deck's bedecked.
I'm wading in them.

I meant, oiled and aimed
to tan and write of war.
Now brow to sole I'm tissued
by small ruffles.
They've also made a puzzle of my page.

Out of the blue
a further multitude profuse
to speckle pansies' puppy faces.
Others tumble on eruptive gusts
among the ivy tongues.

Those on my rose tree, barbed
must bleed perfume. Each is dis-
paired, you see, invitingly as
one dropped glove
but more so, countlessly more so.

All are as succulent as eyelids
light as dancing slippers on the moon
and lunar white
except each rippled back
was kissed indelibly.

It is as if whole swarms of angels
stripped to pirouette on pins
and left us to it, as they sometimes
do. This spring (what's new?)
is overly edenic.

What could be more tempting
than broken promises
of apples?
Above such ash
how heaven burns.

1996, 2011 Katherine Anne Harris. All Rights Reserved.

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