The Flight of Significant Objects
for hiding. A landing place. I let go of
an unnerving ascension, scenes where
nothing bad happens. I understand
small adjustments to a large room with glass.
The day is a blue puppet spreading out its wings.
Comfort is too much to ask for. I am simple.
I am what the sky will never make. We’re trying
to share our thoughts. We’re latticed. The gods
cough to announce their presence. A smear of stars descends
through us. They’ve opened a drawer in me:
a metal ball too big; a diminutive, yellow bird;
a plane, slicing air, a stranger among clouds. I don’t know
what to do about your anthropomorphic corpses
bursting like bubbles in the next room. I throw
one alphabet at you. You catch words here and there,
their meanings dispersed. Angry, I bump into furniture,
dreaming about wounded animals. I want to be held
as a dog holds an apology in its mouth
or a field sees its wildflowers, from upside down.