"These zones...are the breeding grounds
of many of the world's strange winds"

In the book of winds & wings
there are blue women
who shiver their wings out
to extraordinary size, unfurled
into commonality, monkey-vanilla
see through. Everything,
everything is made up of 12 particles.
Of blue, in the book of wings,
there are women with skyscraper wings,
women with bruised wings, blue heron
wings, women with orchid fuck wings.
There are women with blue birth wings
that turn red then flesh, or not,
when hit with air, women with blue
milk wings, women with gunmetal wings.
There are women whose wings cradle
& rock the lonely suicides &
dig their places of burial. There are
women who spread their wings across cold
wood floors, line graves with their ice satin
wings, let other people walk across them,
sleep in them, chew on them. There are
women who set their wings on fire & fly
comet beautiful in the corner of sight,
& women whose crushed wings turn air
to spice. There are women with wings
of toast who eat their own wings, & others
who feed their scallop wings to others.
Have you ever smelled a blue wing?
Heard a show tune wing?
Licked a licorice one? There are women
with brass in their wings & women
with stained glass wings. Women
are dressing in winds & maps & wings.
There are wings shaped like breasts,
and breasts that are wings, & if you drink,
you fly scared, raved, smashed, & crushed.
Touch the hyacinth-blue bloom of woman
wing, iris blue, dirt blue, finger-stain blue.
A powder-blue winged and capped grandma
walks her two Tartan-plaid sweatered,
white westies through the village
April snowstorm. There is beauty
in those milk-white-blue
beautifully embossed wings.
In THE BOOK OF ANGELS, there are angels
known to have 6 wings. In the books of winds &
wings, there are days of wings, skies of wings.
You don't like your poor-white-blue-glue wings
always catching and covered with the past,
like decals on Winnebagoes, tags
on trans-Atlantic luggage, cockleburrs?
There are others: wings of ether & African
violet wings, champagne wings, first communion
wings. In the flammable air
the shape and cargo of wings
ramp & run the dimensions of whim,
of lightning (ball, bolt & eye). Have you seen
the swath of wings? Heard them stir? Fallen
wing deep in the names of winds?
Waff, Black Roller, Erh Chi Chih Fung,
Williwaw, Sz, Om, Chwa, Tsumuji. Always
such thin boundaries between wing & wind &
cirrus ghosts, between skin & the celestial
radio's God voice ghosting all the blue
winds & wings.