In that whistledown Sunday afternoon
I took a balsa plane my father made
giddy as glue! sleight as bones
rondels filmed as downcast eyes
on each seesaw wing
held loose as tinder
climbed as high
limbs laced between
the crag-barked branches of a light-struck pine
long-tailed birds all fleeing
in the sough and shriek of wind
let it go
with that slingshot fling
as if I came to slay giants (never could)
almost falling
knee fishhooked ‘round
a branch as thin as promises
forearm raked in shallow furrows
a hard kind of thirst
bark against my cheek and brow
hard as callused hands
a stitch, a breath
ribs punched in
waited til
the stars all died
in cloud cast aftermath
gone magnetic resonance blue
street lights, windows flicking on
in a far and moth-warm offering
the plane ink-dark, almost gone
to a curtailed horizon
made that simple choice
between forever, falling
The streets are library quiet
A clarity, hid in the serried facades
Serrated trees and telegraph lines
Crossing at that infinite point
Where perspective fails
I put my reading glasses on
Finding in the shapes of words, clear and close
The world – not so far, gone indistinct
We abide in our houses, like rough, disordered books
The leaves of other people’s dreams
In that owling susurrus
A white noise blur
In my clumsied restlessness
A few loose pages rent
Gusting down the road
In obdurate branches, catch
Wondering if
By a kind, entangling osmosis
What stray words are crossing in between
