WINGS

And fencers were what I drew, trembling
At the downdraught of their movement.
As the factory-horns howled at morning
I thought of the dare-launch off a tower's
Brink. My dog looked at me curiously

And a teaspoon stood up in dad's billycan
While mom struggled with the mangle.
Coal was the world, its black choke, but
There were feathers, there was movement,
The epee's fast as a chef's knife, the air
Agitated into action, the pinions beating.

Beating.