You and your wings
have left me
paralyzed—the ‘skeltered wings hanging
like crows’ nests, indefinitely,
fusing together like salt and ice.
And she said: Please,
do not call me darling
The sky still carried some of the incense
left over from a lunar rain, craters full
of something other—
something that resembled
the smell of ash and snow,
the movement of your hands,
the sound of two trombones locked
at two’o’clock in the afternoon.