Creations

my thought flaps

A poem by Jonathan Arnold

Put a finger in the sky, scrape the breeze

Rip white streams through its breast as the eagle

Whisk some clouds in your bowl until they cream

Add a pinch of the sun; only meagre

Pull a whiff of its sugar in your snout

Cup your hands to catch good milk when it rains

Don’t let the lips of horizon far pout

Watch golden tongue fork when voice drifts her plain

My feet hug the dirt; my soul is aloft

My figure shapes an oak, my thought flaps a bird

I stand with the worms, I swim with star’s froth

When I enter my own, galaxies whirr

Death; can only do me well when I smile

Life; can only do me wrong in denial

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