In autumn I sprout wings & discover air.

Here come new sensations—the itch

where a feather first bloomed. 

That rush of oxygen, tuft by tuft, & the glorious

unfolding. I picked our bones to ivory.

Ours was a commonplace mythology:

the scratch of wool pulled low, the scent

of plastic. The way silence turns an omelet.

Nothing of Icarus—I learned

firsthand how swiftly the earth screams

near to us & then we’re buried.  

So, name me Hawk Felt & Heron Bone.

Name me Satellite & Sneaky Drone. 

Study my face in your reflection,

leathered & clear as a second coming.

I am looking at us from the balcony. 

Not from the parapet.  Not from a distance. 

---

D.R. Shipp, originally from Texas, is an observer finding his way. His work can be found in JuxtaProse, Chaleur, Cleaver Magazine, HCE Review, Silver Needle Press, Waxing & Waning. He splits his time between now and then, traveling. He has a curious online following, instagram @shippwreckage.