Requiem

I'm hanging from the spire of the church by the river,
peering out over the city, its sparkling lights
turning to diamonds from the tears in my eyes.
Down below they're yelling Let go! Let go! It is
so far to the ground, so high to the stars and yet
I reach up, stretch, grab a handful and watch them
glisten in my palm. I look below and open my
hand. The stars fall on the crowd and they scatter,
leaving me alone. They are disappointed.
Across the town the traffic moves in blinding
arcs and brilliant streaks like comets. Inside the cars
people go to work, come home from work, take back
movies to the video store, arrive at restaurants. A
train blows three notes and rattles toward oblivion.
Jesus is etched in the cross atop the spire and he is
weeping too. Maybe it's just the wind in his eyes. I pay
no attention, or try not to. Crows flap about me
in the dark and laugh. My grip begins to loosen, the
cold slate feels slippery. Too bad the crowd has left:
I release my grip and push off with one leg.
Then I am floating and shoot out across the river,
self-propelled. The crows fly after me, no longer
laughing. They're taking me seriously now. I fly
over the city and the traffic stops. People get out
of their cars and point at me but I can't hear them.
I don't want to hear them. I close my eyes and feel
the cool night slip beneath me, feel one life ending
and another life beginning, but it's not my life, it's
yours, and my green madness is the afterbirth.

—Glenn Osborn