there’s a small boy
who has grown great wings
soars above it now
(or so he whispers with a grin)
and won’t ever touch (as he says)
the down, down there again

there’s a small boy
who’s head is held tight
in the fist of a man
who holds a big knife
an awful sharp glint
caught in the light
is he afraid? (we are,
but he says he’s “not”)

there’s a bit of something left
in the corner over there
something torn apart but leaping
jeans and white socks
into blue air

liberation for a moment now
is better than nothing at all

and what’s left behind will make
the great admission that
he was never (he knows this, too)
—ever perfectly safe

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Sometimes, things just won't work the way we want them to.