Litter Wings
My steps fall like the flittering of
small-town litter
Eddy-swept and unconcluding
ÔDescartian vorticesÕ that lead
to guttersÕ darkening
Or to the scavengerÕs bony hand.
My wings shimmer wet pewter
in the filling belly of a newborn day.
I share them with strangers;
they are yet stiff;
And their tips flash not with
the skill of in-born flight,
But with the cold pulse
of a heart I do not know