Clay wings don’t fly well in frost,
cracked they lie at her stumbled feet.
In time, she supposes, she’ll fly once more,
as the wind drives in unending frost.
Dawn is sinking ships,
her fire is streetlights,
she bows to her god’s betrayal.
Angels find cover wherever they please
on impulsed dimensions of fortunate greed
as circling promises crack at her feet;
in nude betrayal, sculpted in clay,
she vanishes thus in unending frost.