The Burning Kite

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly.

But to rise on air does not make you a bird.

I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles.

It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke.

The things we puke: flights of stairs,

a skyscraper soaring from the gut,

the bills blow by on the April breeze

followed by flurries of razor blades in May.

It’s true, a free life is made of words.

You can crumple it, toss it in the trash,

or fold it between the bodies of angels, attaining

a permanent address in the sky.

The postman hands you your flight of birds

persisting in the original shape of wind.

Whether they’re winging toward the scissors’ V

or printed and plastered on every wall

or bound and trussed, bamboo frames wound with wire

or sentenced to death by fire

you are, first

and always, ash.

Broken wire, a hurricane at each end.

Fire trucks scream across the earth.

But this blaze is a thing of the air.

Raise your glass higher, toss it up and away.

Few know this kind of dizzy glee:

an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.