Warren Falcon

(04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

I Can't Close My Eyes, What Wings Also Are For


To myself
without whom
not


With this anniversary I accept my
avian better half, though the human
half be allergic to feathers, wedded
to an inhaler, plumage still embraced
in spite of the divided self.

The hard beak gently preens eyelashes
one by one each hair.

The odd eye-stare, the bobbing the
jerky head especially when walking
less so when hopping, do you even notice?

To hear,
the head tips to one side then
the other.

It is all
sound that is out of
balance.

I sing to windows from forests,
to rooftops from street puddles.

I bathe in mirrors of sky.

Trite to say it, grand to do it.

Rumor has it that I once was a reptile.

Maybe.

And so too are you, disguised, two legs
thickly meated of the ubiquitous hairs
everywhere inflated eyes up front,
not much perspective or balance,

like a weak pine you fall more than I
and when I do it's on purpose (unless
it's for love) without complaint of the
air which never fails. Air, that is.
Just to be clear.

Just to be clear, I am at home wherever I
land scanning available horizons which are
also always home.

High, low. Vertical is the thing. And spin.

Speed goes without saying.

Greatly fond of drift, I am easy in the

updraft.


I will not speak of dawn's greatness,

how you quickly forget.


You say that I repeat myself often,
am limited in expression to only a few notes,
clipped patterns in the song, the cryptic
call always an ellipsis. Boring, you say.

Interpretations, really, it's all in the
inflection after all the years now -

Now.

There's always the dancing too
in powder blue without shoes or
need of them,

claws nicely do the
deed is done the changeling comes
note that I am singing to you how
the way it's done.

I tell you the weather but do you listen?

For love, shall I say it again?

I shall say it again.

For love I leave calligraphy in guano
everywhere

but you do not read it much less see that
there
are its messages all around.

And still I am with you trying
to wake you. I peck. I scratch.
I even dance again, a frenzy brightly
ruffled, boasting to impress:

I can lay an egg. You?

Words only. Brittle sticks
but none to land on, or perch,
standing on one leg,
head beneath a wing.

I am so tired.

I can't close my eyes, what wings also are for.

Submitted: Monday, April 22, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013

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