She sits naked on the bed, her back to me, looking out the window.
It is a dim and hazy morning, window open, a warm wind does blow.
She might turn into a bird, ash grey like heaven, flutter up and go.
The morning filled with the calls of birds, commuters, hangmen.
She could see the end of the world where every death will begin.
If her wings come through her shoulder blades, the devil will win.
I kiss those same shoulder blades, those sharp faces, special dispensation.
She is in another world, enjoying her Friday Feast, registers no sensation.
My meal of cold fish cannot pour out enough love to absolve her resignation.
Feathers are sharp, fine wire, taking bits of flesh as they cut down the strings
of the most holy and indifferent stars, falling to earth and all the confusion it brings.
The sweetness of that first kiss as I sit here, sharing breath but not intimacy, stings.
She could be in Cleveland by sundown, or Pompeii before they’d miss her in the store.
She watches the world wake, and time the revenge of a friend she lost in another war.
She is gone, and I count the wounds her sharp and disinterested talons leave in the floor.

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