canary bomb

she possesses the skill
of flight and
every time
spins the wind and
my drafts of paper
about the room.

sore knees—
spare the stacked files
of a life’s
work from those
wings.

I choke on some
gelatinous noise and
say nothing—

that she could actually
love sadism in artform.

this is what I learn or un-learn,
sitting motion senseless,

but without an understanding
of the sky nor of her depth
from getting high.