You could look up sometimes,
and if you hadn't done so
in some time, it would be
impossible to process. So:
Your eardrums kicked in,
you became dizzy,
and something felt
as if you were flying.
It would frighten you,
and you would look
straight ahead
to a billion dotted i's
with hair, and teeth,
and blood.
We would say sometimes
that we were flying then,
saved for special occasions
when the intensity of gravel
and parkways, became too much
to bear.
Somewhere else, the other men
saw you floating, and could not
see you: They saw symbols, lost
in all this poetry they could not
understand. The songs of oppression,
and power, and weapons: oh,
we gave them these songs. Don't you
know by now?
It's all how you read them,
it's all how you inflect.
The syllable count is meaningless.
The words are falling off
the pages. Your flight
is not their flight.
When they tumbled down,
you look to the sky
and it is close enough
to touch.
The world is a fiction
and these fairy tales
are not worth reading
any more.
These beams can not hold up
all this weight. Those planes
tore into these constructs
like so many nouns into
so many others.
The sky is at our fingertips,
and we are no closer to heaven.
The words now are merely shapes
without meaning.
-e.
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