Over our heads masses are moving, whitish
Claire Malroux
* * * Over our heads masses are moving, whitish cottony, ghosts on the weather maps Windings, swirls, languid scrolls under the sting of the wind, wandering herds Floating bodies. Appearing. Disappearing. In our own image. We, more unstable than plants fixed to the ground or the fish sheltered in water We, unable to go back to the ancestral birds and flee into the stratosphere Dominant, dominator winds, chubby sons of Aelous yesterday pushing or smashing Ulysses’ fleet as they wish We, more destitute as we progress, our soul eaten away by matter, at the mercy of an incendiary night
Want to keep reading? Join our community:
Free Preview
Sign up with your email address, and access two free articles per month.
We hope you've enjoyed your free articles!
Become a full subscriber for only $50/year, (33% off cover price).
Thank you for supporting great writing.
Subscribe Today