crippled wings blister with want
as the storm, she cries, the storm is
winding up for the power pry
tremulous struggle, burden of time
can't you see that numbers fall flat
against the enormity of the light
or a child's broken paw, the kind of
right that you'd turn all left to say
you had, to say you could have ripped
Prometheus from his post while his
eyes, repeatedly plucked from his skull,
see nothing and all at once, just to watch
him cascade from the precipice
Bartholomew Dougherty, 2009
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