Tangled Swans -- Witness to the Collision

I've encountered a blog called Tangled Wings put together by a woman photographer. It looks like she's got some beautiful photos. I couldn't figure out how to comment on her photos, so am putting my own "tangled swans" poem here. Go to her blog to see the pictures.

Witness to the Collision
The tangled swans have managed it,
they rise, a struggling clump, black
and white, light and clacking.

Black feet, webbed like the sticky
blood, membranous from a womb,
flop and shudder at the ends

Of their dangling legs, as if
empty black stockings were kicking,
dragged up into the air, still the shapes

Of knees and heels, stretched, unreleased.
Above the legs, curl the warm white
bodies, heavy with breast meat, rosy

Brown thighs, warm from fighting,
thrusting and flushed— only hunger
thinks of a swan as a meal, what

Of the cloud—the white smother—
put up your hand there, against
the flank, softly curved, it pulses.

So, then the outside, the white white
still tangled, at odd angles,
wings flawed and shredded as a book,

Huge plates of feathers, sliding
airplanes of silver, 2 wings
into 4 wings, articulating

From the bone—remiges and retrices—
Semiplumes—to the smaller, small
down, quills, then spaces

Between which warm air trembles.
Can you see through the fury
and horrible noise to their

Necks? Where ultimately they tango—
knotted—twisting, as twisted voice,
2 throats inclined and enraged,

Throats locked into smooth
white serpentine undulation of
barking. I don’t think they sing

Any song I understand, but those
tangled swans, so strong,
so broken, reassemble into a sky

I will call up to as they tighten
their bodies together into what
I will call heaven.

And heaven is only a white place,
a silence, an uninterrupted mind,
fluttering, born.