yes,
you did fly out of that window.
everything that has followed,
the days and years that came,
nieces and nephews’ birthdays at your brother’s house,
the long drives in late afternoon,
your hair, finally white, blowing to the east
at the gray water’s edge as it did when it was jet black.
the valleys and peaks
of one’s life lived,

All happened,
but in your widening
aperture irises
in the three seconds it took
for you to kiss pavement
that for some reason
is as soft as your lover’s lips.

it, the only naturally graceful moment of your life,
comes from the italian defenestre,
meaning “of the window,”
meaning “you,”
dancing in midair,
either your voice
or the air whirling past your body hums that melody
from your favorite twilight zone episode,

did you come wander with me?

Once, before all of this,
it was february and
we were midconversation on a street corner
by the liberty bell,
and your eyes wandered somewhere else,
and i asked what you were thinking,
and you casually asked, 
“what would happen if I grabbed your hand
and we ran onto that bus,
and just rode it wherever it went?”