Like the day my wings carried me cozy off the ward
and doves surrounded my face, everything on fire.
Imagine a drugged infant soaring near a painting
in a wood-walled gallery: will she touch it? Will the alarm
sound? Soon over, unneeded, I dug new graves – graves
for the friends I left in the ward, for dungeon ogres, for
static men, narrow emphasis on healing, curled ice taken
for a human-made arch, tongue still bleeding, the lips a parody
of pink – graves for furry old comrades with beards, graves
for the still living underground, the lost, the passion fruit boys,
girls with tattoos, for all of them I dug new graves. Worse
than the others, I cluttered little men in jars. One said
my life is over, so I dug a grave for him. Each man an oyster
now in the earth, each an ogre with a ruby in the ear, lilting on
the air like falling coins, all ink erasable, noose loose enough
to polka, celebrate, slaps on the face, back pats, missing wings.