A heavy, humid air
Settles on the city today,
Distant buildings are erased
From the top down like
An unfinished drawing.
An airplane crashed within fog
Of this city, and birds flew
As if they could do no other-
Each’s fall unfathomable
To each.
I pause, and hold my breath
For twenty-nine seconds, a lifetime,
And remember a white statue
In a grey garden at night
Dreaming, counting
The shadow of an open hand
On a dark paneled wall
In morning sun, twenty
Nine seconds of the earth
Thrown up to night.
There is a woman wearing white
Gloves and a yellow sundress, she
Has a bloody nose and I am in love
With her and the shadow
Of a spider.
Twenty-nine seconds is not
What it takes to make a drawing of
A city even partially erased. Breath held,
Prayers, red-haired dogs asleep
And waiting.
Pictures.
A child dressed as Abraham Lincoln
Wears large red lips made of wax,
A cold kiss of love and questions,
A portrait of your mother.
In front
Of fox-hunt wallpaper.
I have watched birds
And I have watched airplanes and
I will tell you that I am the king
Of neither. Earthbound, measurable,
And unsafe.
To dream of flying
Is only to ask a question
That is partially lost in the fog
Within reach of my city.
Twenty-nine seconds is not
What it takes to say I love you, even
Forgiving the fog and cities within reach,
And dreams more real than real, dreams,
Love.
What I have to say to you is not
Measured by altitude and the speed
Of descending, the earth, the black earth,
The measurable laws of this life,
This sky.
To dream of flying
Is only to ask for an answer
That is partially a question,
Partially an end, wholly dark
And more real than real.
To die of flight takes more
Than twenty-nine seconds
And twenty-nine seconds
Are a blessing, and a goodbye
They are a counting on fingers.
E. Charles Rolwing III 