The middle harmony

The middle harmony


Metamorphic walking
each footprint in the din
an open mouth
that cannot swallow
armor falling off
in brittle sunset snow
arriving naked.

Children achingly kiss you goodbye
as they part
their eyes search yours for guidance -
you see only ahead
hear only behind
throat in striction
as the mind-womb empties.

Are we meant to fly?
Each leap a tearing away
each alighting a nest?
There are still fine places in the world
islands of pink salt-water life
gashes of beauty left
in the wake of talons.