graveyard 

angels must lay down like this
in perfect rows
splayed out specimen
fingertip to fingertip
bellies to the dirt
a kind of reptile funeral
metal & asking to be kept awake 
i want to be buried 
as a B52 in 
one of the aircraft bone yards
near where you lived in arizona
i have to walk 
all the way there 
this is a migration 
following only the highway signs
my phone turns into a beetle 
& snaps itself in half
there's a fatal theme
in tonight
a longing 
to find wherever they 
still have open land
away from every single city
until they mash together 
in the distance 
collapsing stars
i arrive & pace between the rows
of bones
foot prints in the reddish dirt
put my hands to the wings of the plane
& tell them they can 
be birds if they want to
they don't just have to wait 
for a military man 
to cox flight out of them again
i want to lay down 
& wait for someone to come 
tell me the same kinds of truth 
but i don't
i do this for the plane 
& they listen
aching creaking hollow bones 
i rub their wings 
till they break open with feathers
giant blue jays &
birds of prey all yellow talons
& all the other song birds 
& an owl with the face 
of a sundial
they fly away & i'm left
with their graveyard 
i lay down
& try to become
a sleeping plane
gust of wind 
i divide into perfect 
even rows
come find me i want 
to be birds