Fly II

Cellophane wings that
thrummed the pane
oil-drained of vim
still on the windowsill
your bronzen engines
overturned
like a junkyard car
legs paired hairily,
scarily
clutching the air
eyes, brooches of compound red,
stare and stare
signs that all
correctly read
say 'sorry babe,
you're dead'.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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