The Early Dreams
I am the girl who tears scraps of poems and tapes them to her bedroom walls
So she can read them before she sleeps
One night she dreams about a flying man
Tearing open the world’s rusted skin
The air falls away, the ground disappears
The ground that crunches bones and splits spines as easily as
Lighting a match
She wonders why he doesn’t die
She wonders how he knew the world would plummet below him
Instead of rushing up to meet him, like death flying in her bedroom door
She feels that when the sun rockets over the eastern seaboard
And her eyes open
The force will tear his wings out of their earthly sockets
Those were the early dreams
She clings to the words on her wall as the world reels forward;
The poems whisper to her in the sunlight