Through sky, the color of fading jeans carried loosely in a bluebird's beak, they soar, cutting and carving through wind as an artist's brush upon the blank. Their palette is feeling, the canvas bright air, brushes bright feather's, wings kissing the heavens. They prefer painting the creamy-white clouds, perhaps a golden sunray or two. The wall feels bullied as they soar overhead, weaving sweaters from stark landscape, bordering on gusts of joy and summoning the condemned through lonely slits in the cliff of Our World and the Next.
Author notes
2nd poem from the anthology. It was also a creative writing exercise in which we had a word list to fit in.
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