Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

The sauce of life is edible;

Fuggin dig in.

i always envied the birds in the sky.

to have wings powerful enough to carry you above the clouds,
to have the option of an escape whenever you get lost in the crowds;

i envied them.

then i began to think,
perhaps i too can fly.

so here i stand, two feet on the ledge.
i glance down at the pavement, soon to be cracked red.

averting my gaze to the birds in the sky,
i step off, knowing full well i won't fly.