Disaster Bird

Death’s wisdom is its body’s
black gloss, and in its silent gliding
a penitent anchoring of
itself to sky, and only lands,
and only keens his parched and
strange collage of reaching sounds
when trouble, an iron red impending
veil, from space, from rock to sea
makes algebraic the essential things of
bird and man—it cries, as if allaying
some debt to purdah with torment of a
cosmic kind—because the world would be
recast, because the stuff on which it wafts
and sleds and sometimes plays will be
sent back. Destroyed.
It aspires, and touches air alone, but
tomorrow he will be someplace sacred,
beyond the roots of ocean’s channels,
and beyond the silver snow-capped hills,
will be alone as all things are yet floating,
between the hills, between the air, 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


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