Flushing Meadows

If you were to sleep in a sleeping bag
on the surface of the moon, so the theory
goes, then you'd be hovering just above the dust
and rocks, in fact, you'd be as comfortable on the moon
as you'd be in my room spooning against my biker thighs.
In a pinch, I could concoct a new mechanism
that would grind you into believing
everything is ecstatic and demented.
Just when you think it's not, I arrive.
Whenever you leave the room I never forget
who you are. When you come back
I'm all like, "hey!" There are people
out there in Flushing Meadows whose
singular pleasure is seeing us spin
into oblivion the same way a tiger
turns into butter when it runs around
a tree too fast. I believe in you the same
way I believe my hands can form enough turbulence
to lift me above the crooked city when I need
to get out of bounds. That's just the beginning
of what I need to tell you about what goes
on around here late at night when you're not.
Soon you'll see what I mean by ecstasy
when I unbutton my shirt and a flood
of birds are released all over America.