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.