Charon

Cork them into bottles
And fold them ‘twixt your feathers
Mottled brown and grey and tawny
Yellow, rusty crimson gold…
Eyes flashing turquoise, ringed with silver
Like baubles on a primordial necklace.
Bronzed talons, chipped and broken
Like an Etruscan statuette.
Soul carrier, beholden to none,
Soaring on some unfelt breeze
And capturing the dead
Like flies in a gossamer net.
Tiny glass vials dangling
From brown suede cords trapped within
Pillowed down, each one
Detaining a purple wisp of fog
Or a silver stripe of light
Or a coppery glimmer of dust
Their only contact being
The knocking against one another
Never to shatter or crack
Or to embrace.
Freed only when the harrier’s wings are full
And he falls into the river
Erasing their color
And releasing them like little glass fishes
Into the swallowing sea.