feathers

white mountains
heated by sun and sky
blowing a panicked warmth

so she fell down and picked up the ocean
in swift herring motions

where stars have gathered
into nets of silver and gold
a cambric shirt
sewn with parsley seams
and needles of written words
like wires stinging the cold air

the moon more solid than the sun
bound to earth
and less solid
teeth
and tongue slashed by anger and pain
she holds so soft

the sudden violence of writing
a dreamlike blip on an FBI screen

metallic in its groanings
rolling into some desert eternity
where the waves remain
momentarily fragmented
by metronomes

we’re all feathers in the hands of a fettered god

joseph owen