when I bend to her so close
and understand the give and the take
she blinks, breathes.
coils around my face to leave me numb and laughing.
There is one flight up, seven stories down.
a little bird perched on the center
fathoming wires and cords
a slim desire to rip out the satellites
and set them aloft like pale grey UFOs
a slighter desire to graph the angles
of the apartment with only my skin, bend
and flex to be an intersection
ad infinitum,
ad infinitum,
ad infinitum.
It's a breathless dealing, a small promise
this rooftop is sweet permanence
one flight up, seven stories down.
The history channel sign is the end of
my last cigarette,
singeing the hem of the sky
neon and burning.
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