by Skyler Osborne

Ghost-motion of the falcon
over the fanned-out palm like everything
we might kill if only our hands were larger,
the shadow left its tremor in the center of the day.

I lost my mind in brushfires, split fruits,
boredom—a brother
dragged me through some broken leaves
and beat me normal on the lawn.

Jets fleck the cirrostratus and my friends are grinning
beneath their halos. My friends
dismantle machines for money.
My friends are dazed, assassins in a graveyard.

The butterflies are wrecked and luminous
and quiver at the windows.
I am not afraid of miracles. Even now,
the skeleton. Even now, its hands.

Skyler Osborne received an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers. His work has most recently appeared in Narrative Magazine, No Tokens, and River River.