The Sky Decides

As if I were a filigree and mesh
of branches reaching up in pure,
assured, communicable gestures
of appeal, defiance, supplication:
as if there were a way to say the thing
outright to it, receive response:
as if my ears had unforeseen

experience in hearing: as if my throat
were golden, bred to float and flood
its canopy with song: as if its
ceiling had a sentient soul – not
red with blood, not fibrillating
bibulously, drunk on longing,
wrong, as raspy as a toad – like mine:

as if I knew the way to goad it into
definition, make it delicately
apprehensible, and preternaturally
fine: as if the only job I ever had
and ever will have is to be here
when it spills – and drink my portion
of its wine: as if this poem with

its picture could depict the recognition
that it wanted – sustenance on which,
with me, it might decide to dine:
as if I had the least persuasive
power to invoke its snow, this first
of March, Two-Thousand-Nine,
to fly. The sky decides, not I.

.