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.