My ribbons are falling from the sky to touch my waiting fingertips. Tumbling and stumbling they shimmer their colors in the greenish sunlight. Here I am, I shout, outside the city of kites and crows, with my squares of paper still foundlessly floating. And the walls are behind me, though the mold of the concrete still burrows beneath my tired ears. I am free with these black feathers growing round my throat and the life budding on my pregnant palm. The ribbons wind themselves in my hair now and clasp at the back of my neck. I am of the rock and dirt and mud,  yet the winds still call to my steady sparkles. So into the darkness I go, and into the turn of the atmosphere round the earth. Goodbye, my city, I stand to walk, now, I dance to fly with these wings and satin.

Watch me now.
I am the hope in your soul and
my feathers are falling.

My claws are dulling on this branch's bolts
and nuts that loosen under the rusting wood.
I see you through your window prism glass
but your tears don't fall as down as gravity should.

Gravity. Gravity. Gravity.
You see me dance to the waltz of
the apples all falling.

A hammer curls among your right fingers
and heading to your left. You look for me
on the ground and softer branches of fir,
but you've known I'm here in this iron tree.

Melt it down now.
I'd fly away and leave
the tree to its falling.

Your bones are breaking and I am shaking
so I cannot come and would not sweep you
beneath my mother's cotton down wings,
for you have dulled my claws and still your fingers diffuse

to the sound of the

Windows now fogging.
So we scream as
the light is still falling.

I wake to doodles and drool
and lie to the beat of the
heat in my veins.
They circle me now and lurk by me now
and poke and they stroke my
reddened cheeks hidden under freckles.
The wind sneaks through the hinges
and quietly tinges my eyes with the
tears they've been meaning to let fall.
Circling, twirling and swirling
above, waiting for my blushing rhythm to
stain the sheets and so now they dive.

dès que dès que dès que
and dès que the day has dribbled
and dès que the day has driveled
and dès que the day has scribbled
onto a plastic table of wood.
dès que the day could sing
dès que the day could mend
dès que the day could tell
us to drop our fainting pens
we'd be trampled under the roll of the hours.

A light chalk settles on my skin and my eyes begin to wrinkle. The curl in my hair quits its circle and my freckles have lost their twinkle and my blink and my wink are let loose and I think I'll lie down now and count the seconds between a breath and a heartbeat. So let us stay then you and I for the veins and blisters have caught hold of our thighs and the bows we have tied have slumped to shoelaces and sighs that envelope three whole pulses. Let us stay, then with the wrinkles on our eyes and the sigh whose spit leaves a twinkle on the pillowcase. I can feel my inner elbow harden in the cold, so hurry now and count, two three one.

Enlighten:
         For the load's far too large for my
         Weary eyelids to share with their
         Lashes, who cut her skin and charge on to
         Urge the blond-bangled mare over the
         Stable's horizon.
         But she lies in
The light kicked from the window's pail and there
Are no tears welling in the pane's corner,
          Nor any lashes to wisen.

Today:
 I dropped a ceiling fan into the pond in my backyard and watched its blades
 slap the shadows away into the corners of the room

Until:
      The shadows flood the
      mechanism and trap the
      movement as the
      wind still moves through the
      windows, little gusts through a
      littler hoop