he stands at the rim of the world,
feet naked on white peaks,
ankles brushed by robes of sky,
of red and purple birds diving
into the canopy.
he stands forgotten, at the edge
of the Arctic in cloud and ice,
and the diffused blood of morning
drips from his knees.
he stands alone, beyond men’s land
and beyond where butterflies nest
in the ruins of steel statues
and stunted trees.
he stands among fluttering stars,
his cloak unfurled, black
with raven feathers woven over
yellow skies: twinges of sunset
and dark flurries flying south.
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Errant Ink 