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

I could disassemble myself,
Placing my digits in a line of increasing size on a
Metal table,
Measuring by the millimeter and
Inspecting each incision.

I could stand in the path of the
West wind,
Watching my skin come apart
Atom by atom and
Be scattered on the breeze like the
Ashes of so many men.

They could stretch out their hands and
Shake out their hair and
March between mountains,
Conquering every enemy that
Blocks our many paths.

They could become dust motes,
Finding a vivid green eye to irritate or
An antique fur coat to settle in and
Multiply into an army of myself,
Surveying the surface of the world.

I would watch them stamp and tumble and
Fall into the cracks in the ground,
Scraped into the countryside by our
Pens seeking a certain truth.

They would become cramped in those cracks,
Fighting for sunlight and air that's
Stained with the smell of cheap sugar icing and
Sweat from the brow of a child
Playing tag.

Frumious, multitudinous and speedy,
My toes tickle each other as they
Twitch to the beat of my seedy
Skin's rhythm. They itch the tired,
Flimsy freckles into grimacing
Their way to the mistaken pyre
Where toes are simply fingers that
Prefer soil to flesh.

There I am, I think!
           With finely worn shoes and
           The exact amount of wrinkles in my
                         Knuckles cast in bronze.
Just Look! at the way the streetlights and
           The trees conspire to sketch feathers on my
           Jawbone, as majestically angular as the
                         Blocks I stand on.
Try to Believe! how many colors there are in the
           Tear rolling down that perfect hairline, as
                         Substantial as a granite butterfly.

While her hard feet roughen the sidewalk and
Scratch into the ground, looking for the
Warmth she's learned is beneath.

          While the air she surrounds gets caught on her ribs, and
           The wind in her lungs shakes the aged leaves down to the
           Bench that tries its best to cradle her through the night.

But Look! there's never been a sun as bright as the
           Glow that wisp of hair kisses to that brow.
           Such a glow I've never seen,
                          I'm sure.

I didn't feel the hit but
I can feel the bruises

Numb and noxious and nothing
touched me while I looked sideways
laying down breathing heavily trying to

Creep back to the corner to crouch down amid
the thunder of the blackblueberry and the asundered boat
floating on my horizon and anchoring itself to an eyelash

Before it fell to planks and sheets
Before it sunk beneath the black and the blue

always steady ever ready to slice the levee
and stall the carriage so it can no longer
cut down into the spiral jetty
where the salt water spills
and the thunder trills
to the simple ****** of eyes blinking

I have an embroidered leaf on my palm.

The blood stained the thread while the needle
passed through my skin, but as it tugged and traced

I smiled because I knew that autumn had come.

I was skipping on the concrete tight

rope when the wind swirled beneath my tipping
parapluie and I took flight into the loosely

hanging telephone wires and my voice suddenly
cracked through a handheld, reciting the lyrics of a favorite

symphony.