Cecil Wings

Sometimes, a fabulous notion escapes from my wanderlust eyes as I wake just to see my pale brother look up from his pleasant demise. He spies the delight of the heavens He circles his lips with his thumb and right as I motion I'm leaving, he turns toward the house to go in. This is a poem from a notebook lost years ago - there is more to it - something about absinthe and his belly writhing - but I can't put my brain on it at the moment. Maybe someday the notebook will show up and I'll finish it properly~