Under the eagle of light,
the mirror claws.
Gliding over its eyes,
the fire of distance closing.

The penciller crouched
on a calm blade of chair,
facing the expanse
with walls and doorways
up his sleeve, raining plaster.

Turning to the gasp of wings,
a blue shade brought to a point
of chalk made rubber,
a red line under a see-through mouth,

and a yellow line
under these winter months
on a whipped bed
where a pile of mated coats
opens cufflink doors.