Now that the planes are gone
the air weighs almost nothing
left out to die and rivers
still trying to dodge, stalked
there and back —on this roadmap
an invisible string curls into flames
circles down, looking for bridges
and just above the horizon
what once was a moon
loses its home in the fire
—the sky from so far off
pouring through me bone by bone
looking for the deep breath that waits
on every map though they don’t show
the rain, just the distances
—they like names, name everywhere
but skies—they work the folds
so I never forget how huge
how easily and my arms
climbing toward cities on paper
with wings, with the scent
from streets burnt to the ground.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
