Picking the patterns in frost-bitten lanterns
Where the light leans to bide each lost-souled phantom
Does the naked eye see
the illuminated rings of Saturn?
Slipping past airplanes, you're fodder-ridden, head-down
Where the sound of darkness echoes like bitter, angry bantam
Does each ice-cold stone of Saturn
deserve to be in its ring?
This is when you find your wing, half-broken, in a sling
Hairline fracture, ****, that stings
This is when you ask yourself, "What does this mean?"
     End.