Conditions for Flying

With white lightning stabbing,
paisley parachutes, slain, jade the wet rocks.
Falling down, the scepter, the garnet specter
of granular royalties.

A motionless panel of Rubies and Opals,
a gang of grandmas set the scene.
Old age rages:
the sky doesn’t know how to wait.
It changes and changes,
and rages and rages,
and charges and charges
with white lightning.

Granite prophecies, too opaque,
are leveled day to day.
Motionless angels regret the ability to fly,
molting feathers in their eyes.

In these eyes, circles of honey
and maroon dot the hue
of the blue hour, the meridian.


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