We never
reveal our tipped wings.
Discuss
our right to bayonet charges.
A Cooper’s Hawk
dismantles a struck dove.
Right there
fright feathers finally land.
Incomplete statistics
rarely have true meaning.
You prefer raw data.
I prefer a glass of cabernet.
We move
toward and away from each other.
We have sex
on a departures time table.
A colored sunset
reminds you of the hawk’s bloody beak.
I want to feel
her talons latch on.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 