If only it were that easy to clear
The elevated canopy, pushing off
Thin, knock-kneed legs, caught
Somewhere between earth and air,
Clearing oily pools of nickel-violet
And snow-drifts fringed with fragments
Of frosted metal and broken glass;
Petrol pumps standing like a pair
Of cyclops - their milky eyes floating
Above plated shoulders, watching
You in still panic and wondering how
It is you rise like an electric etching,
Each staggered leap aligned with their
Dumb pulse, to settle in some unchartered
Constellation only to sense the true depth
Of darkness and return again and again
To savor the gift of ghostly wings or,
More likely, a much nearer emptiness.
