Dreams on the Morning of Getting Kicked Out

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

—Jack Gilbert

It opens like an eye- lid in the back of my head

while I sleep. Satellites stay in orbit by falling,

I need to know that kind of math.

“Hell,” you say, “love should make you feel holy.”

So I hold your voice with child’s hands

against my ears like a bomb—

what a warm factory the body is.

There is a magic in this, but don’t we dream of more?

These bodies could smuggle stars from open fields like gunrunners,

stack light in beds of trucks like lumber.

I love what stray long hairs on a shoulder say about a man

or how even God blushes at the open face of a tangerine.