A Paris made kite

Without saying that the goodbye is on the way
little is left of kettle illusions, but matches and doorstops
boxes of wet matches, too soften the view of the cordial fire
to soften the blow of the falling Paris made kite

Parisian kites are timber for losing memories in the streets
the miracle-laid ice vendors doling out hidden fire starting dreams
rides from the farms outside the city cry that you are in the way
while the flats on the primary streets laugh at your misfortune

Meanwhile, that kite is falling, attaching on sight to a target
the kite on fire from the knowledge of wasted energy, oh,
how did it get so high, the kite is reentering the atmosphere
and welts like a partitioned drift of evolutionary dance equator-parsing

Stealing the kite as it hits the ground is on the mind of many
tomorrow we will all faint to the sound of M. Ward’s scratching post
like bakeries that have tossed magnetic futures with dismissed dreams –
there we haven’t thought to examine, but to leave alone in the drifting heat –
where a piling, wasting sand is deployed to quell fire of the kite’s nightmares
alone, and still, wrestled apart from its owner, that one who makes these falls