There is the odd misplaced word,
some miserable timing here or there,
and hordes of the smallest things
I would take back if able.
Travelling the underside of a pewter sky,
following my own tail in a spiral trail
thoughts under the bridge, water
pooling under a busted fridge.
I thought I remembered you from another
obscured day, talking about fishing deep
and the demolition machines, artificial flight
steel-nosed kites and Byzantine fire,
wars fought with paper and string,
a thunderbolt and that vast rolling space
before the sound waves break over us.
If there were a limb to be out on
at all tonight,
I would fly like a paper plane
past horizontal and far away.