When I worked in the steel mill the ceiling crane dropped a bolt at my feet the way the cat leaves his catch on the doorstep for me to step over it a bolt thick as a sparrow: the gift of it: it didn't easy as eggshell crack my skull. Walking underneath the el's same bridge superstructure when i first arrived in Chicago this is what I thought of a falling bolt, having to give up my cats and not be mad if the whole thing falls off track aimed at me. Buildings straight up from the street tall slough off their "Falling Ice," stand-up sidewalk signs like it's nothing. Buildings the sparrow's slam into, fall from— watched from the window desks— mistaking light for the sky, land up here. The cats probably have been put to sleep by age by now. No blame.
There is nothing concrete to grasp in looking into the morning sky The evidence of red-eye flights east a plane drawn line presents is not a wheelbarrow solid enough dependency as day and night carry in coming and going You don't see the poem saying anything you can't see in it White dashes of contrails' seemingly unmoving streak towards sunrise disquiet the pale otherwise unpunctuated blue of dawn breaks it off Here is that silence