How’s your wing, your poised aerial syringe?
Do platelets still run back and forth as
your capillary trenches flow with
wild Oriental tea?
You are a sailor; the air, your sea,
so strip not, thus, your flights to me.
You were cruising through the skylines like
a privileged lark
amongst snow-white crows:
the flapping… the flapping,
the flapping is slow.
Do you mind? We are reaching subsonic tremble.
See that, the ocean of your hovering tease?
O, Celestina of the starry seas,
Your waves mumble — how tired are you of the tides?
Was her wing that much inviting?
Did she look that luscious in flight?
Ask the moon, ask the moon
to give you a little more heave, a little more
and maybe, just maybe
you could be a painting. You could be the subject of
a beautiful photography. A flawless geometry,
perfections in gravity:
She, the one who measures
the hypotenuse of the galaxies,
— A. P.