Stinging over and over like the miracle of loaves and fishes, they snarl out of their aerodrome, hell’s own angels with little venom sacs.
A Blue Morpho, sable and teal, velvet powder flocked on pinned, flightless wings. A monarch, burnt umber and ebony, preserved in a permanent hover.
When the dead speak to me, I ask them to be patient while I mark time in the color guard, legs starched-stiff as my