.
Somewhere between a chicken and an angel,
genetically she’d never been in sync –
had she dropped into this being via eggshell –
or from some celestial eye in a blink?
.
The odd celestial eye, that is, afflicted with a
stye.
She doesn’t know. No record of her birth.
She sports innumerable wings. None help her fly.
Her feathers keep her warm. But life on Earth,
.
she’s learned, is not particularly more ridiculous
for creatures without evidence of purpose
than it is for more presumably felicitous
inhabitants like us who polish up our surface
.
thinking that’s how to proclaim what we’re about.
AngelChicken has accepted she’s a blip,
no more impossible than we, she has no doubt.
Like Plato made of play-dough. Or a pancake flip.
.
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