I can’t seem to put my talon on it:
The deep, darkroom depressions,
whiskey-soaked breakups,
all seem to be part of an ascent.
Mosquitos could drain me for hours
and I would stand up and walk the blood
back into my legs. Maybe it was cold,
maybe summer, and the road dogs chased.
They will tell you I was morose in those
aeries, that I flitted fitfully in puddles:
Stories we can agree on, like we were walking
in a graveyard, or we were at the shore.
When I came crashing out of that heaven,
there were no clouds left, shredded stars
lit my aura, the world was in other peoples’ eyes.
I am no longer a gargoyle, and that
is what is startling. Not alone
in the low cielo. Where I fell there was
a book to read, a chair, and my stars,
grace.
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