shoulder blade angel wings


When the virgin territory was first revealed

I saw a series of low hills

along the crest line of your spine,

escaping in the imagined thought of tectonic forces

moving in from your sides, clashing

and raising your vertebrae.


Further north two sharp peaks arise

in the vicinity of your shoulder blades,

geology giving way for heavenís flight.

Two embryos of folded wings

waiting to break through your back

and stretch and unfurl the lace of angelsí feathers.


Donít take these as bizarre or morbid thoughts. 

There is no wish for you to fly away

or return to dust.

But it is far easier for me to think this way

than it is to count the bones showing through your skin

after the nurse turned you on to your belly

for the first time.

And would counting bones

do either of us

any good?  I donít know

the number you should have. 

I couldnít find your missing pieces

or pluck away the extra bits.


No, much better for me to play this game,

to have this refuge of odd inspirations,

even though I build them with the symptoms

of your weakness.  More than divine spirits

or earthly movements

the bigger dream is that we play this game together:

You are a cloud with purpose,

intent on amusing a troubled man

standing in a meadow thick with brambles.


Somewhere between the low hills I spied before

and the budding wings pressing up,

is the spot where I drop pebbles

in the pond of your flesh

to make the ripple of your ribs.