fly i get off the train at an un-named station i lied, i eat the name, break off each letter like a graham cracker. i didn't want you to know where i'd gone. there's these huge tall buildings with rows & rows of windows i'm convinced no one lives inside. climbing ivy draped fences & over rubber tire graveyards i get to an empty street-- the watch on my wrist turns over in protest, plucks off its own eye-lash arms so i find the entrance to one of those buildings & i go up to the very top floor, because where else would i go? each room with a white air conditioner still holding on to the window-- i push them out in the hopes that they'll sprout wings when they fall the first one thuds below & i'm sorry for asking so much of it but it's going to be winter soon & the air conditioners need to adapt, this is tough love i'm reminded of the time that we traded stories of the times we felt most cold, i told you i was on the ferry from staten island & you said you were sitting in your jeep in january waiting for it to warm up if i was there i would have wrapped myself around you a scarf or a knit hat-- i don't give up, each room thrusting the air conditioners out, saying come on, don't you want to fly? they're tired, i assume, or lonely, considering there's no one living there down below the wounded ones crawl on all fours, they speak gravelly to each other they trade tall tales about the people who lived in their rooms all lies, beautiful lies, the best kinds of lies finally, in the last room on the floor i thrust one out & the wings come, they're made of saran wrap & months of swallowed dust particles i ask the air conditioner to take me with it, but it's already gone, it weeps as it flies over the others (or maybe that's just the condensation) i don't tell you about any of this. at the train stop i tell you the same story again about being cold & red on the ferry, the wind made of broken graham crackers. when you fall asleep that night i pick you up & throw you out the window, you don't sprout wings.