What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.

What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.

What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.

Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.

And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say  
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?

Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.

That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.

over the shoulder squeals
giggles atop great grandma's quilt
from under the tree
that we have all hit our heads on

way up in the field
screaming up in to the sky
NO POCKET KITE
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!
diving a dipping
then crashing
youre no trick kite!
nothing but a dollar store impulse buy
ill *** you up and stuff you back
into the belt-clippable makeshift container
the one you shamefully came in
curse you and your inadequately short string
maybe she'll have you
return you to your designers glory
not i

oh but you
i see you
soaring
string waaaay to far out
dangling above the trees
and power lines to boot
aloft at least 100 meters up
today you soared
mathew perry shoot
thats what im going to call you
parachute in a bag
to heights i could never achieve
standing in the sand
waves crashing against phalanges
in those years
over a decade back now
and you
and your potential joy provided
collected dust
in that same place that i left you
all those years ago

but i had to call the dog back up
"TESS DOG, HEEL!"
and i had to wipe the quinoa of my hands
and roll up your string
she had to stop smiling at some point
your stewardess or should i say flight attendant
smiling, no loving.
or staying.
kissing.

oh lets stay here!
in the field
atop the blossoms of berries
yet ripened
smiling
"pulling and running!!!"
under the shade tree
on a blanket
holding hands

give me thirty days though
i have some things to work out

I feel the immediacy of things. The imminence of objects. I feel the keenness of a glass in my hands. The instantaneous dribble of condensation over a knuckle. The spontaneous aroma of a summer night. I am enthralled and enraptured by the crisp mint of toothpaste, after a barely slept night. I feel the rough twill of a garment and I am in love with it. I extend my hands into the rapid amber slats of the streetlamps on my dash, as I speed beneath them. I watch them wash over my hands and I feel somehow indescribable.

I am in love with beautiful women who pass me on the street. Every one them pretty. Every one of them a neat mystery. Every one of them in skin as lovely and soft as breath off the ocean. I know myself least when I kiss. I know myself best when I am kissed.

I feel myself in the world and I feel IT in me. I love my friends and my family. I love the rough smell of fire. I love the wisp of spring, grown into the verdant pulse of summer's heat. I love to sweat and feel the movement of my body through open space. I love the sharp itch of a tattooer's vibrant needle. The splay of colors. The tang of my blood.

I look at men and I see boys playing at what they think a man is supposed to be. I see excess, increase, and birth. I see leanness, erosion, and death. I somehow know that neither is life a beginning or death an ending. I know it as I know the tip of my finger. I know it as I know the taste of sweat and hairspray and sunscreen, distilled in the instant of a drunk kiss, in a tent just inside of Idaho.

I am for life. I am for pain as I am for pleasure. For I know that one is nothing without the either. I wish to be known and to say myself. I wish to know you and to hear yourself, said by, yourself. I am simply. I am a man. I am just what I am.

I may die tomorrow. I urge you to love those dear to you and to say it everyday. I only try to do that. I only try.

What to do...
I'll look it up.
Just ten steps they say?

That's all it takes?
They're kidding, right?
I'll look at it anyway.

One
Don't tell him that you're miserable.
Don't let him see your pain.
Keep his spirits up,
And don't let him see
That you miss him more each day.

Two
If you're engaged, or committed
Always try to remember:
He's doing this not only for himself
But for you
And your future together.

Three
Encouragement is key, now.
Let him think you're doing okay.
Don't let him know
That you're depressed.
"I'm fine, I promise." you'll have to say.

Four
First he'll go through boot camp,
Then after that is school.
His job will depend
On where he is,
Which might not be near you.

Five
The Navy is very demanding
So don't expect contact right away
He's probably busy;
He's worse off than you;
Give him a bit of a break.

Six
Try to write him every day,
Even if he says not to.
It'll feel like
A conversation, of sorts,
Even if his replies are few.

Seven
Nothing colorful on the letters,
Nothing girly or cute.
If his commander sees that,
He'll be made fun of,
And given more push-ups to do.

Eight
This step says to just relax,
Find a hobby, don't wait and sit.
Do something, do anything,
Keep yourself busy,
It'll be over before you know it.

Nine
Keep in touch with his family;
They are suffering too.
Chances are
They've been with him longer
And are hurting twice as much as you.

Ten
Stay faithful to him, always.
Don't be the girl that roams.
Be fair to your sailor,
Tell him you love him,
And you're waiting for him to come home.

Ten steps is all it takes, they say.
Ten steps and you'll be fine.
Even with ten steps to take,
I'll miss you dearly, sailor of mine.

Could you find it in your heart to tell me what I mean to you? I don't care if I'm a molecule or a nervous little stain on your brand new carpet or a skyscraper built in the prime of the city's financial boom. Just let me know, open your mouth, put a pen to paper for me. Graffiti my heart. I've just got to know.
Maybe I'm not strong enough to knock down your wall of insecurities and doubt. But I'm not a wrecking ball. I'm just a boy. A boy with doubts and insecurities and negativity all his own. Bit please... For me, if you can find it in yourself to just do me this favor, I will be forever grateful. Forever content with the fact that you'd offer me this one thing. And if, by any chance, you can, then I can find it in me to make the right time and mend appropriate bridges and search and scour for the ample space where you and I may fit.

Yours,
X