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.