Shimer College - Acropolis Yearbook (Mount Carroll, IL)

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When I left the room, There were still blue tentacles of night Brushing back the breathing of the morning. I walked into a hollowed bowl of hillside Silvered in the mist with rustling voices. Then they returned to me, The reconciled voices then returned With myrtled fingers, Promising to help me turn the mask into a face. Down into the hollow of the morning We went soaring, rebuffing winds That billowed on our wings like twisted snakes. We separated into flocks And flew upon each other, Wings wrestling in cold tumult as a contest closed. We leaped over clouds, severing The candescent chasms they created. We hurled ourselves like quoits Into the foam of the expectant sun, Ringing the whipped rays with the strokes of our voices The morning molted into noon, Scattering blue plumes until The ochre feathers quilled out from within, Scraping wings with salves of luster. Plummeting through swirls of unguent sunlight, We listened to the singing Of our reflected faces in the wingbeats, Listened for features to be carved upon the mask. I rested on the ground again. I folded my wings forward toward my face: In the shape of the shadow gold eyes opened To show me standing with surprise That this fluttering should be myself. Then all around me in the echo Of the transubstantial, concave noon There was a tinkling of the other's wings: Each found what I had found. This was the second spoke in knowing I was certain. Now the wheel would be slowed By the eyes of my flying Until it almost stopped. And then the creaking came With an insistent punctuality, The spinning slower now But the sound shrill in adjuration. I knew I could not hurry through my sleep Or I would wake to find my dreams forgotten. But I knew too the singer to be waiting, Her laughter ticking slowly like the wheel.