I did not see her in flight or morning.
I did not stand her harps or trumpets.
or anything in my getting up day.
I traded the dreams we made on the ground
for my dream to be a god in the sky
(It was a guilded Gethsemane).
Hell is immortality without a net.
Immortality is a moon that never sets
after a million Sunday suns.
What was more important in the clouds
to my zest for joy unseen?
What unseen lord lineated my wings
and made them more important than our broom?
What made them more important than our leaps
Through earth bound walls and beams?
What — in the light — was far more desirable
than the beads of sweat in our dreams?
Once we salved our scars on the ground.
Fields bent around the space we tided
and stole away from lashes and bounders.
Once we stilled the weevil in stole away hours
and made nothing more important than our clay.
Once we spun and made a world
and then I flew away.
Why, boy, why should she have not kept moving?
My funeral band should have been dusted.
My procession was better off bare and emptied
in a taxonomy of heartbreak and loss;
a mourners’ row of upturned plots
for living graves of swords and shields.
Hope brought her no feathers in ruby red fields
and memory gave her no balms.
Why should she mourn me in the memory of flight
when my rails meant more than her arms?