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