What we carry is less than air
as if a stone could slip its verb 
untangle its object and free fall 
upward in lucent afternoon sky  
where, among the cumuli of misty
structures, a rising shape unveils its  
aureole to reveal the palest moon.
Yet, we have lost the art of gravity
how words edge a breath to facet 
shapes deep in vaults of opaque air
flickering a nerve in stone to jolt
a figure awake in shivering reality.
As if, in the stone yard of angels
I hear wings groan in brut wind.