My life's a sky hung with charms.
A pigeon bone has been

drifting down on a skeletal wing.
Stretched thin, cumuli

sift right through. Tick.
I split in the whittling,

honing gull dust
in a delicate trail. Sharp as a dart

strike, I'm pierced.
When it hits

the impact, whistling,
leaves only a swinging,

singeing, ion shiver.
Sheared at the flaws

I comb for days in splinters. This brush
of death enough for now.