No boxcars left to jump onto
Wren whistled blues clutch imaginary ledges,
tightrope those creases where time climbs
from my brain through my eyes.
Peril subways any trail that takes me
where home used to be. On my map,
its directions, dust settles, covers signs;
backroads blur, markers fall like notes from
harmonicas blind men play;
a blizzard of books disguises my terrain of tears;
there’s little else left to see.
But you, my love, your wings to which
I cling as never before.
Weightless as sunshine, you say that
about me as if my flailing arms are balsa,
my body, a once hefty ode, its weight
you lift now with music you put to it,
arrange like a poem its poet might
live in, unless its words, my blood lines,
you fear may jamb or go askew
on that page of me you’ve framed so well
only blues leak from its good seal.
B. Koplen 8/17/11