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.