Friday, May 29, 2015

The Glass Wing

heavy as a mountain
translucent as ice
broken from a great body
its feathers melting like snow

the shard of a hill
snapped from a potter’s hand
then laid in a box
on the prison island of birds
a vice of brightness
surrounded by broken windows
crowds of eyes of dust

the steel bones like fingers
opening from a clenched hand

it shimmers in the afternoon

the tremendous wing

o frozen dream of flight
o grave shoveled by the sun

for Ai Weiwei


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