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July 2014, vol 10, no 2

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Jonathan Humphrey

Ink-Dark Staccato

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.
               Li-Young Lee

Name the shape and they have assumed it. Starting arrow-like, collapsing, rounding, smoothing into sphere. Last night an onyx orchid became a sky-broad chest, inhaling and exhaling. This morning, quickened by light, they weaved a feathered wreath, then filled and molded into the door on which it should be hung. I have found countless ways to enter. These are not clouds, but their living shadows, tailored with the ink-dark staccato of wing beats. The sun is yolk suspended in sound.

flying deep in its flock
starling returns
to itself