Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Rooftop

Up parallel on the hard edge
of concrete and brick, I know
myself flat, like
the horizon, like a long arm

laying a long arm down.
This is the best way to stand.
Hand over the edge, suspended by bone

in air turns gravity’s grave messenger
and descriptor of death, the message
rising up my arm like a cold breath crawling

toward the heart (of worlds
of stone and flesh). The best way to see
the city stretching past head and toe is gaping
straight into that flaming sky.
Which pulls and pushes
our willful frames.
And kisses hard ears
with a soft mouth.