Sky Diving

Before the clouds
I fall,
a dove in ivory linen,
dipped air pollutants,
trapped in a hole
beneath the shadows of eyes.

Murmurs suppressed,
in muffled gasp
from the charitable ghosts,
over the death of wings.

Slumber swims a wine sauce,
no one offers a life preserver,
would they
if they saw the initials “SC”
on the hidden belt buckle
or knew the pocket
held a bag of reindeer dust?

North Pole flight is months away,
benches the perfect listening post
for naughty and nice list.