By Jason Visconti
He sashays his sheet with a good haunt.
He rides up his airspace like the tail of a wing.
When he lifts, the color of rooms change
and the sky spits up a sheen of black.
He flutters out of range.
His bird self sighs on landing.
He draws you in on a single draft of despair.
He whips himself up then disappears.
The moon will take him,
a cellar of soot under night’s torch.
Then a hazy film of white light.
A dart at the stars of the sky--
fanning into the night.
A cold chill of hollow unbroken.
A wind at such heights.