The Jumpers

how finally borne by air not one little bit

how not like men but like rock, anvil, fridges, carpenter’s plomb

dashing, done –

The noise they make: nothing. The perch of our not saying

on rooftops watch the white fluttering in the tall towers

And of what they bore of the thing behind that walked in the fire

that wanted them, and they from his awful black breath

all alone

Then: slap like bed against wall, crack of baseball bat

slide of lock, crick of neck

stump dis-timbered, plops in a lake

thuds wet as dumpsters

man looking up and he is shattered

by the woman flying to him and him only

Firefighters put their hands to ears

they shout stopitstopitstopit

and one, becoming human, crawls under a car