Way Past Beating

[collectedbones]

I like the launches in the middle of the night best,
the way the flames so violent,
so controlled,
scratch at the black sky,
I like the way an escape is made so calm,
so controlled,
even though the ceiling is concrete and complete,

That's where I am taking my collected bones
and bodies of words
and placing them here now.
Where you can no longer find them,
Where you can no longer go,
and even though the question still lingers
about your methods
and the sleight of hand
and the tricks
and the way you were aware
of a rabbit hole so
personal
purposeful
potentially life changing
and the way you snuck in there
like a fox made blue
by rage
and time
even though the question still lingers,
you can no longer go.

Burning, like we are like our tail like our trail like our
burning, like we are
to escape, to punch through concrete, to launch and soar,
to fly -- really, to fly,
and to give up all of our
earthly possessions
to the black,
including our livers and eyes and fingernails and heat and microbes and electrical signals that snap between cells in our brains and finally, too, of course, the most important organ of all,
the last we give up,
the last I give up
My heart, finally dead,
way,
past,
beating.