If I were an
albatross
long-winged and
debt-less
I would turn
asymmetrical
retrices
towards a
hurricane,
three or higher,
and quell my
restless beating
in sky-whipped
fury, in
surge of
grasping, tidal
fingers
and if white-feathered
breast met the
waves, sunk
wet and stinking
into deep crevasse
then it would be
with release
for World’s
End is less a
place
than a
letting go.