Carraig

He has fractures that crawl along the surface of his stone feathers
The rain trickles into them, tiny rivers
finding their way into all his secret places, washing
out the grime of bird feces, cleaning
mottled crevices filled with decay and lichens

He steps into the storm’s wind, the weight of his plump body thundering
like the sky
He is hard and slick and dense
like love that won’t go away

He is ready to fly with those waterlogged wings made of all the wrong things
But instead he walks on them
Upside down

Hunching, glistening
in lightning flashes, carving
the grass where he walks, leaving
gashes that he hopes some stranger will read

Tomorrow, in the blue skied light
an inevitable stranger will sit on his back, marveling
at the intricate geology
of his folded stone wings

The words of his body have always been more interesting to strangers
than the words of his feet