Piloted I
through Dante-sky
my carriage:
talonned, cawking high.
Downcast eyes spy,
on rustsoaked
stone cathedra,
grinning brutes
awaiting my tumble
claws clamped,
and clanking cold
surburbanities.
But the rocks
nearby
are comforting,
sharp.
When I fall,
I will aim well.
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