They are
Feathered wings, edged in gold
and spoon silver
from half-crushed mines
Where matches struck
and axes fell
They are
cherry-red umbrellas, snapping
to the plucked-out tune
Of my harp-heart
In the shade of
aspen trees,
sighing beneath a summer sun.
They are laced scaffolding,
supporting the frail structure
of my lungs.
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