Ceci n’est pas un symbole
dove
The morning flyer
Even now an aëropile awaits you
Halfway up the aisle with the drink cart, she suddenly realizes she is in rapid, beating flight
Vivat le toréro
Thought, then the light
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat
Against metaphor. Against the economics of art.
No matter what Yeats says, the paired turbulences of air lifting living wings have more worth than all the gold in Byzantium.
The public are advised to familiarise
“The Blessed Damozel”: the advance guard takes position
