Winged Lady

Poetry 20 oh, little doomed & diaphanous thing you, dear, are beauty too

stained-glass garb touched by human hand, you won’t be a rusted hinge

you are endless in the windswept flip-fall of moonlit dip & dive

the smudges and prints upon your limb-lifts are frankly unobservable silent patterns of touch, undetectable in your garden-groove

flit on by, you tender thing, remind us what you tender bring dart and sway ring out on that jazz-vocal ride remind us then, how shame don’t hide