Even Without Wings

The provocative silence of his sleep
gathers in gray light on the pillows.
The manicured appearance of last night
is left in clumsy, empty piles on the carpet,
a butterfly shucking embroidered wings.

The easy breaths slip into long minutes.
I am drawn into the study of his folded geometry:
blue shadow and white flesh merge
into natural, fluid triangles
of ankle and knee and thigh,
shoulder and elbow and wrist.

Flight should not have been possible,
but the metamorphosis becomes him
with answers physicists cannot supply.

Drew A. Foster