I would drive holes
into the azure sky
to lay booby traps,
pull the stars out
of their fixed positions
at the dark firmament
of imagination,
and shriek like
the bruised,volcano-
charged Mississippi winds,
if you don’t turn up
in the myopic evening
when I wait for you,
like a bird throbbing
with the predictable
fear of the failure
of the winged
flight of fancy.