Huddled, our plumed bodies curve
in arabesque. Convex vertebrae
are charms; they
ward off the dark and cold.
We pass tales like glass
in pinched beaks. Friction
warms our palms, our words.
Prometheus, have pity.
salvaged kindling, a spark
as hot as a pin-prick.
Now we chant each others' stories,
a noisome flock in blanketing
gray and whisper a rumor
|P.J. Lynch, The Six Swans|
Still, this is not quite hitting the spot of what I want to do with it. The third stanza limps. I'm trying to find a way of showing how the friction of passing the stories back and forth ignites a spark. And I like the pin-prick, like when you get stung by the spark from a sparkler, but I don't know how to use it.
I wanted to say something about "a benediction."
Oh well. I guess now I should just let it sit.
Comments, constructive crit.? Please and thank you.