Again falling, my hand opens
and the air is my salvation.
Again falling, I see the layered airs of my city
and its dirty streets, opening to the secret other
city, the home of a thousand lost children
and their grizzled fathers with work-locked
hands, again falling to the last outpost
of their aspirations, or their first occasions
of grief. Again falling, can you see
that all of it, all of
them are here?
The.American.Word. 