Apr/May 2002 • Poetry • Special Feature |
Last Flight (a haiku)
The deadly click, click
of the broken parachute,
those melted wax wings.
Death Gets Around
Death is more devastating to the living
than to the dead. It treads in its deadly
way, the smart click of its heels
on the floor that gleams with wax.
It drifts lazy as nimbus without need
of a parachute. It waits behind gauze
curtains that lift in the breeze. It
wears a knowing smile.
Intoxication
It could be your
next-door neighbor.
It could be you.
Fear rides the sky
without a parachute,
pelted by danger.
Rain like wax,
thick and deadly
prescribed by priests
and measured out
click by click.
The scent of sin
intoxicating.