Slow Wings

Within my true macadam tethered reins roll— A ragged seam play On cords unmade. This bag of feathers My pins, rehashed held the dreaminess In its youth's mask. Pinions dark within Move through my own breathlessness; A jab dug in my pillow— Its cloth frisked. Vigil my heart out of time That her coma at last allows sleep— A new probing dream lifted by wings. My pale dark in analysis Glows while in the light. But like a butterfly's effects in my skin— Our cocoon's riddled strife. The fiber of these slow wings— falls first at the thread's melting.