There were feathers
In the gutter
Next to the cigarettes.
Another slow stutter
in the composition of nature:
Your ring on the left
Deftly alloyed.
Delicate next to the destroyed.
He only loves rhymes
So at certain times
I add one to make him listen.
A shotgun
Wedding, a glimmering glisten
Even as four cells large,
I am a turbulent charge
Across the flock of phonixes
Their feathers falling to the gutter