In the heavy palm of my hand.
It is my hand
Where this beauty is compelled
I can feel the wings tearing at the skin behind my hand
where the powder is wearing its way out
Her gentle wing laced with bone
And stiff web
Locked in joints of chitinous armor,
Rowing the summer air.
Remembering the worm
Crawling into the velvet padded cockpit
Of some sailing machine,
Whispering the drive train to life,
Laden with sun jewels
And acres of fabric,
In the heavy palm of my hand