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Roman Candle
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From An Airplane Window
Up here, the cities patterned like the flights
are quiet blazing clusters now at rest;
Streets of parked cars, curtains pulled, little nests
of potential goings on reduced to lights.
The city manufactured golds and whites
that substitute for color faded west
limit eyes beneath them to see at best
only a star or two on moonless nights.
The scattered towns burning up and down like a candle
and sleepy heads put out like a wet cigarette -
my own sleepy head is more than i can handle,
but those tangled grids of light are more than i can forget.
Well the sky to the ground, it almost looks like a mirror.
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'almost' i say, cause it ain't hard to tell which is which:
one's measured when a black hole / pole star bends light nearer to itself
one's measured when a body is looking up from a ditch.
There's a feeling in my mind that's either fire or fire forever for now
and I can tell you friend, the only home i've known
is consuming desiring and always burning out somehow
in a bed of stars half charted here below
I've got the turn signal clicking with the highhat on the radio,
there's an antique voice fixing to sing to me soft and low
it's like Dante and subways and words left in the air,
you've got to go underground if you want to get anywhere.
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