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