Everywhere like Paris.
Tap me down if you can.
I'll come back in a canary yellow taxi, my arms filled
with flowers, my butterfly bandages
ripe as the cold an iridescent drizzle on the breeze
and bums and benches where I am not waving,
not holding my clear plastic bag like a brilliant, future kiss.
Who says skyscape is the geometry of angels.
Who says a pinwheel of particulates turning.
It's getting so I can't tell a pageant from a parade day
upon day of warplane acrobatics over roof terraces.
Little girls poised on the lips of pools.
Pink Emerson radios crooning balcony after balcony of hell
holographic gun spray imitating shrapnel.
Hey, sister, tell me anything against after.
I'll write it all with a chalk that's neon,
make an architecture from ledge.
When the pigeons come, gray fists and bits of violet,
I let them know.
Gravity gathers endless as mud.
Section two, Into Air Invisible Kingdom.