bound

I try not to question anything. That way if something goes wrong, I can’t be held responsible for knowing better. But electricity runs fastest the more miles it has to cross. You can follow the dip and glide of roadside power lines with your eyes as you drive east to Minneapolis and be certain, when night comes, that light will shout from poles into the shadowed yards of farm houses along Highway 13.

If the sky is there for us, why not look at it? Why not throw our heads back and laugh and suddenly notice that we are free?

I plan to discover God in the strangest places. My father’s heart, for example, is made of a million batteries powering an expanse of light over the Jim River valley, cutting the land into spindles that we gather into sheaves and scatter from planes. We are happy, we are busy making the world, you are never so beautiful as when you think no one is looking. Push me hard out of the cargo hold. I’m laughing, falling, and turning like a record on a spindle. I wake up before I hit the ground.

.

and every now and then a bird would not fly by
and someone would look up and say:
huh, what wasn't that?

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“The last leaf that is going to fall has fallen.” – Wallace Stevens

For ninety-nine days the fires burned. There is no
symmetry to anything now, but the reconstruction
has begun, one solitary steel beam raised upright
yesterday. See how rickety the blue sky is, our cold,
helium gusts of speech pushing up and up from the sidewalks,
the streets, the crowded corners, arching the wind over us,
the molten stories of six summers cooling finally into myth.
We have sewn shut the horizon line, built a network of nerves
threaded through with red, pulled so tight by planes bellowing
into buildings that even hanging out the windows for air,
one last phone call to those you love, could not save your life,
this thread of feathers torn from the skyline billowing hotly
from the 104th floor, into the consolation of space, saying
hold hands, jump into the sky, in ten seconds I will catch you there.