STAR POems: Invocation

– a little wax from

melted candle

– a gentle press

– feather on frame

we near completion.


at the edge, we pray for guidance

and hope the artifice holds.

will a playful stroke’s friction

plunge us unstuck

to the heart of de profundis (that madness)?

– or will the moon’s cold heat

send us


flitting to our doom?


we birds are singers

awaiting lyric sharpness

– pinioned to our shafts.


Matt Wingett