on brief human achievements of flight.

who was it who brought you flowers?
the crocus-- the jonquils
pressed in between your leather
journals on the end-table--
the lamp wears her hat 
askew-- holding onto the rim
like a woman promenading 
along the edge of a glassy lake--
you took your words in tangled
fists of ink--
raw fingernails to 
dig stanzas from the white
of the page-- 
do you still wake up
haunted by the rain
falling on the keys of your
type-writer? did
you funnel men's words
down your throat like
you were taught to?
held them long enough 
in your stomach for
them to become a child--
there are different ways 
in which humans achieve flight--
there was the plane to San Francisco--
the paper folded for flying
that she sent to
you across the apartment--
there was the typed lines
of men kicking knots 
into your intestines--
& there was-- of course-- 
when you turned inside out--
white of a hospital robe
your blood wrote the garment into
a page-- fist to dig &
to uproot a child from
the page of a journal--
her name leaves you notebooks
empty like wilted
crocuses-- lavender & white--
the remind you of 
the skin of children or
of your loved who
flies paper airplanes 
across an apartment to 
someone else--
you're empty enough to
come to new york-- the
air on fifth avenue gets
swallowed by snow
& cigarette ash-- you don't mean
to still love her--
you don't mean to your
poetry in couplets
but your thoughts end in twos
& the window is open--
the pages are alive & breathing--
you hide them under your pillow
so no one care hear the
mouths you're hiding
& the window is open
& the lamp tips her hat
& the window is open & 
you catch a paper airplane
from the sill--
& the window is still open--
there are different ways
in which humans achieve flight--
you build wings from crocus--
folded yourself into an
airplane to fly
three stories down
to the street below--
typed your body
into the pavement 
like a glob of rain.