(my first dream on my new pillows was seeing cloud-messages that S. had written in the sky for Jim)
What the sky spelled out that day
was no accident; she'd paid
for the words the planes so casually spat in cloud
like the small hearts of birds a cat not yet mine
once left on my ledge.
I hadn't her heart; I never had.
The tired pilots wanted only lunch
The rest of us aground, agape
The entrails lasted while they did and then were gone.
I drove on, then swerved back to look and look
up at nothing, tracing words of love and hurt dispersed faster
than even any engine could spurt them.