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

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