The anxiety of starlings

November 5, 2017

There is the wonder,

in the anxiety of the starlings.

Oiled,

and starved.

How beauty

can fall out of something,

how their shiver made a whale.

 

A sky-dance 

of a fattening shadow.

Round and full,

stretching and curved.

They are the pitch and duration,

on a stave,

of the supersonic candy floss,

sitting on the coral birth.

 

Like a fluxing crown

above the lines of cut slate,

the black church dagger,

and the empty carpark mile,

all, still to roll over to life,

a drowning chorus 

of a hundred thousand frightened mouths.

The dance of ghosts,

in their solid state.

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