Flight

The drip-dim cellar of a star, where one story contacts another and the whole folds in on itself, breaking and remaking the chances. On banks of ice an eagle stands in wait of silver, now winging upwardly across my view and down to something still more promising. A gentle hum distorts some pain and echoes in an old chorus to beckonings providing space for other kinds of vital rhythm. And plastic, always plastic, never far from plastic in this tortured refossilizing realm, using and disposing ...