A soft clutter of linen wing
Rose up from the clear grass:
Our magpie friend found himself
Startled, mirrored, and cawing,
His fat beak and soft belly,
Those tailored wings, rustled
Like fresh pillow cotton against
My ears. The sweetness of the
Light, dappling my eyes so all
Is pied like this handsome fellow,
With glass eyes and a flash of
Green on his warm side. Her
Marbled, agate spheres, swirling
In her tender orbits, charmed me
Once. Through cloudy glass, now,
She simply startles me. It is the
Same with all the names that I
Scratched, twelvefold, into
Dull lines on this paper, skin,
Breath. I know, darling, I spoke of
Her with a gentle tongue, and
Held her drooping spine. Darling,
I know I called him 'love' and
Kissed his cheekbones, swam in
Her eyes, tangled myself in auburn
And in ivory. Sweet, they are all
Aught but glowing arcs collected
On my wrists and ankles: chains
I drew myself to keep me in
My own painted skin. When I write
You up my arms in thick ink, you
Appear vermillion, calligraphic,
As silken feathers from my metallic-
Winged bird friend. Yes, you shimmer
Across my skin with a thick linen
Sound and a pair of soft eyes.
Your glass wings scratch my eyelids,
My paper sighs cup around
Your waist, your name remains
Always, glowing on my skin.

-------
'Jusqu'ici, tout va bien, mais l'important,
ce n'est pas la chute, c'est l'aterrisage.'