Deceiver

He sleeps upon my bed
Wings wide,
Delicate and hollow boned.
Yet he is a sculpture
Of carved flesh and muscle,
Dark of eye and long of lash.
The dew of his body
Catching in the cup of his wishbone
Drawing the light along a trickle to his navel.
Dark curls against pale feathers,
He is a Renaissance of swarthy skin
And fierce lines,
The butterfly of his closed lips
Pouting hard but showing
A single tooth.
He seems peaceful now,
At ease in spite
Of the broken back
From his fall.