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.

I always thought I was special
At least that's what I was told
The burden of expectations brought me down
I compare myself to others
Probably too much, but I look at what they have
Scholarships for art, music, sports, science
I'm none of those
My pen and paper are tucked away
My painting wasn't a Mona Lisa smiling
Nor was it an exact replica of the London Bridge made out of toothpicks
I sat in the back trying to figure out what note came next
I asked the teacher to tune my own violin
I sat out of most games and was told constantly that I would play in the game
More of a waiting game
I would see how warm and dry I could keep a bench
What talents did I have?
Well society told me I had none
I can make people happy but also annoy them in the same process
Trying to keep up with today and tomorrow
Buying coffee so that they would see past my flaws
I'm still searching for that talent that I can be know for.

In this castle where I lay,
With the angels and queens,
As they bow down
To pray.
And in these dreams,
Of which I sleep,
My tormented soul,
The demons shall keep.
And with these thoughts,
My pen does bleed,
Onto parchment composed
Of guilt and greed.
And in this hell,
Of which I dread,
Upon a rock,
I rest my head.
And with these hopes,
My wings spread high,
In dreams of returning,
To that castle in the sky

They say that God lives very high;
  But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
  You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
  Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
  Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
  On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
  “Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”