right hand pointing

for David Bowie

 

Wipes the paint off

his porcelain Christ face,

drapes hand-me-downs,

bolts of silk, florid patterns

on his back. Lifts his lost head

into rock-and-roll and smoke,

flashing lights, cop bright,

identify rhythm. The lightness in every step.

The heat in his head spreads,

descends to his shoulders,

melts the wax off his wings
and he falls.