The Eagle (Home Behind the Storm)

he takes with him sticks
as he sees fit to furnish
that castle atop
the stooping
moaning thing they
call the stacker,
decommissioned twenty
years ago and he did the same
some several hundred
centuries ago
and fished at the undulating tide,
the untouched
acres of his homeland
glistening crystal
salt diamond oasis
wastage, and in the
eye of a cyclone
he sees the invisible
aether, he sees
the coming sunset,
he knows and senses
as a child pulling at the
ribbons of a parcel,
intuits those magnetic
energies that bind the
earth concentrically,
icosahedrally, and
bathes in the prismatic
that are the dolphin’s signals
the whales and orcas—
he sees but not far enough
from eyries atop seaencircled
angel’s masts and cries,
watching pictures now
permanent etched upon the
bleak and depthless cliff’s rocks—
his perch and sometime spiritual
kingdom, where in its centre
spins the morbid echoes of
his other children—
who must never see as they,
the living, the endless levitating
on Satan’s silent intersecting
winds, who see with unclouded
eyes now opening—he
sees and builds his nest
with bright firebrands, crosses
and coils and double
helixes, he sees
as we all shall see, from his home
behind the storm, the



Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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