It’s spring, bound and trussed: Crumple it.
The things we first scream across the earth
got printed and plastered on the April breeze
Raise your glass higher
or fold it between the hiss of champagne bubbles

The bills blow by:
Toss it in the trash.
But this blaze followed by flurries of ash hands you your
bodies of angels: puke
dizzy razor blades
a skyscraper soaring is a thing of the air
up and away. if we all could fly

what a thing it would be, flights of stairs, an empty sky,
Few know this kind of permanent glee:
You can toss it something to puke.
I’m sick of the burning kite winging toward the
flight of birds and the postman attaining everyone’s address
in the sky. You are in the original shape

but to rise on air does not make you a bird.
It’s true, a hurricane from the gut.
Broken wire
Death by fire of wind

Fire trucks persisting in May whether they’re
sentenced to a pair of burning wings
and always, bamboo frames wound with wire on every wall.

A free life is made of words
Scissors’ v at each end.