Gasoline Wingers

Strange bird
with
oyster-wing flash
over
glistening peaks,
speaking
in fluted
whispers
of winters
less cold,
more violent,
that came often
in his short years—
often when
the worm wins
and the song freezes
and the storm
whines.

More columns
of heat,
lord bird-head,
more sunny wings.

The bumbling bee,
kin to weightlessness,
busy,
surrounded by
family,
absolute
black and
yellow,
and not of
the lonely sea
where snowy islands
harbor
gasoline wingers.