Greylag

that fly,
are stuck like needle’s
barbs in white flesh of
sky, honking,
bright cumulus,
taking grey’s blend—
its other stillness that
we had before
our enmity began;
sad blue skein’s bray,
pure chance,
slow stampede and
final,
away.

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

$1.00

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