Exit Stage Left

Beyond the it and the here and the there is a place
where the eyes have skies,
and the clouds can see everything
through the clouds.

Where dirt clods wash cleanly from
fallow garments and forgiveness isn't rationed out
in quantitative bundles but ubiquitous and uncontained.
Hands clasp and lovers gaze and
fucking is second-rate to the alternative,
and even harsh words sound musical
to deliberate ears seeking anapestics in
conversational tones.

When you leave
the it, the here and the there
you will be torn asunder
by the reality that floating above it all
is gravity's trick
to make you fall harder
and faster
and splat louder
on the pavement that inevitably
destroys you.

I wish I were a radio so I
could switch off the news
when it gets bad
and turn myself on again
only when the love songs
that skip like children
come blowing down the airwaves.