With winged hero.
Hello, messenger. You are no good at flying but faithful in your attempts.
Pranked again by your devices, you can’t resist the dime store crown, the glitter-wrapped wand to go with it, even as it leaves you short one palm to break the fall. What resistance you have, you spend against gravity.
A study in wreckage, your devotion. There you go again to the height of the last wall in the next fallen fortress, to meet the updraft, that it may lift you backward into the hour at your open hand.
Guardian forms.
Here is your origin: flame
crossing over sky, you
curve from here, from
two lines meeting
at an acute angle
to whisper wings
from these shapes,
nothing but
your parts.
***
Inspired by Paul Klee’s angels.
Bodies outside time and space.
Consider this illumination here now. Not quite us, and yet. Neither fact nor fiction, mortal or immortal. Who are you, and what? Illuminated form without matter, creature of eternity, yet not without beginnings of your own; how many of you are standing here now, on the point of this needle, stitching time? You move in space, yet are outside it, jumping through without passing. You know without thinking, sense without feeling, speak without words. Move love into light and back again. There is a common preference these days, not to see you. It is supported by argument and reason and other human tools, but for these you haven’t had much use.
