Killers

December 6, 2015

burningbook

Love, they do breathe through walls,
though I rise from your ear like a genie,
cork their mouths shut, make my body into a net
they catch against, their arms swiping through
to catch my snow-white woman of lacy scarves
and engine grease. Tonight while you were gone,
I saw myself as a sleepwalker
going out into the trees, their limbs
tying themselves off behind me,
the flaps on a straitjacket.

At every place our lives have touched,
pages have flown off and caught fire,
making the stars’ eyes water and blink.
Fred Astaire will never lose
his grace, and, love, though I cannot swing
from tree to tree, I do have wings.

John Rybicki