It’s Friday, but it feels
It’s March, but it feels
Off to the races without tires.
The tank is full. If you light a match,
I need a helper,
but they are allergic to me.
In the Balloon, I see them swim the Channel.
They’re safe because sharks are flying after me,
eating the only good pieces.
There is pain and beauty of the stars
that explode in the back of my neck.
Why do you tire of wanting to fly again?
Think carefully. Don’t make a mess.
They won’t remember me,
a wren in a dark cave
with ugly eyes like death.
A mess is a bad memory.
Silence is brutally good.