Wing Dust
Your smile descends to your jaw
like a parachute letting you go.
The pressure—excessive,
as you plummet
like a hale comet.
Letting go always seemed
a dark orange butterfly.
Wing dust smeared
on wishbone fingertips.
The blue below beckons,
churning like some sinister brew.
The air—seething,
as you plunge;
a bullet piercing water.
Falling down always felt
a glorified descent.
Fingerprints stamped
on stained-glass wings.
Your eyes collapse,
like two spent suns.
The jaw—grinning on the shore,
holds enough light
to be ecstatic.
