Lightbird
Lights in dark,
a turning plough,
tube of tin and roar
with faces in a
box, high above
cold woods, streams and fields
and real life.Sinews below
rest and frim,
eyes turn to heaven
to the prison of
bad air, mocked angel,
packed life.
And should they
fall from the sky;
there is a kinship in distress.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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