I cannot walk across
the silent tongue of the cherry tree. A poetry store.
A song of a song.

I fear
the lines I haven’t yet written. They always
take the cruelest shape of
a boomerang.
I am a living flesh wall.

Strange now to think of you:
a white blizzard of birds,
traceless into cyberspace,
caresses my ribcage.

Eyes shut. I see
Death, faultless acrobat,
swaying on the life trapeze.
Between two sequences
of immortality -
so funny, my chase...

Even a child can swing up high
into the perfect blue.