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From
the gas station scrap heap
I pulled a rusted Esso sign,
its ellipses warped into an arc,
its red, winged horse-angel
barely a decal in vermilion.
But if he were a deity,
imagine his traipse
across continuities,
not dust, corresponding in light.
How would the discarded find
their own forms--
tires, cans, newspapers--
all spiraling into shapes and bodies.
Think of his carriage as an icon,
the promenade afforded gods,
and how his spine
would support no saddle,
no control you could offer,
only the insuperable,
ineffable flight
you could never tame,
you without wings.
William
Dubie's poetry has recently appeared in The Northern New England
Review, Conspire, Cortland Review, and Clay Palm Review. His latest
collection is an online chapbook, Resurrection Bingo, from Two River
Press.
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