The Muse of Extension [1]

October 8, 2010

As such October comes along and we open
the few windows we have less and less and wait
for our wind chime to play the same tune that
it played yesterday. We know it won’t, though.
Might as well ask the prism to reflect
the same sun through the same window the same
as same can be…the same as July…

Why, in July the sun was vivid as the clouds
that never seemed to rain…

Why, July’s sun damn near killed everything it
could touch.

In Harlequin we bred no grain this year,
no grape, no apples, and the berries, the birds all ate,
of course, and flew away, shitting the seeds
too far north for us to ever find.

They say it’s fire we should blame. They say it’s fire
that has tied us to the ground. That it’s just a pointing. Not
the real source. That it stops us all from flight.

But we could never fly—
it’s only babies can.

As such each October we open a few windows up
so our collective kids, like bats…
like bats baptize the air, spread wings.

Little cherubs, they think for just a minute
how this land below
could not be a home for good, forever, but
for just a minute more
and ask please, please to hold the string.
Hold it taught, tight, see me fly!

And so we watch as they frolic up there and fill
our windows with amazing sights:
A harrowing color, a sky-scape, kites.
I love to see the babies try to extend
the station we call home. It’s almost as if they fly
around up there and learn almost to speak.

We know they don’t, though.
And finally when they do come back to land, we fold them
in our arms again and finally all to sleep,
to sleep.

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