I’m not some graceful, silent bird, its wings spread wide,

its feet skimming the water in the pre-dawn fog.

I’m not the mist rising, the fog lifting, the great

trees sashaying in a cool breeze, the sky all gray and low.

 

I’m not your safety metaphor, or your abstraction, or your little cliché.

I’m not the boy I used to be. I’ll blow your little bird out the water.

 

I’m a ghost train, a locomotive screaming,

my wheels gripping tight to the tracks.

I’m coal and whine and wine,

and a loving cup of cheap warm beer.

I’m ashes glittering in the laughing moonlight.

 

I’m delta blues at 3 a.m.

I’m a B25 and your shape is painted on my fuselage.

 

I’m Jet-A and a flat spin,

the explosion in a pasture,

the smoke rising,

the cows lifting their stupid heads to stare.

 

I’m letting go and holding tight. I’m animal pain.

 

I’m screaming in.

I’m destined to burn. Recover me.