Eagle in the Whirlwind

the cave fits a small fridge
or fridge-sized person, and is
situated up the slope of the hill
that disfigures the otherwise
empty horizon—eagles sometimes
land there—the jump it is called by
people because the hill appears from
its little opening to overlook the
weak and final state of the soul,
complete sameness and dissipation;
a large and futile plain &
men before netflix existed would,
if alone and particularly inclined to
morbid analogies of the self,
crawl backwards into the cave,
or leap, accepting death’s demand
for ubiquity—their souls spreading
like spring fire, lightning flash,
eagle in the whirlwind.

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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