Thursday, February 1, 2018
Peregrine Falcon Comments
Rating: ★0.0
New blood in the killing-ground,
her scullery,
her boneyard.
I touch the raw wire
of vertigo
feet from the edge.
Her house is air. She comes downstairs
on a turn of wind.
This is her table.
She is arrow.
At two miles a minute
the pigeon bursts like a city.
While we turned our backs
she wasted nothing
but a rose-ringed foot
still warm.
...
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12/13/2025 10:13:15 AM # 1.0.0
Kind of like these poem even if I don’t fully understand it