Say I'm the bone once believed
to raise our dead up
from the cold or that I believe
in anything but the speed
of each sublimating tumble
when ice moves directly into air
or when we do, weightless
Then the sky is not in your clouds. And if the wings are not firmly attached to the mind and the armrest grown restless, recline. When the blue-suited voice of reason asks if you want the whole can and ice with that and not if you'd like her back, you can see how nothing is securely fastened.