Everyday Escapees

My poor students, all I ask of them

is to grow antennae, lie down with lava

and rise with snow, grow tongues from

their math assignments and no, Melissa,

your mother won’t approve of the bioluminescent

smear on your communion dress. The world fidgets

in uneasy relationship to our statements

about it nevertheless producing silver

buds from ragged limbs like the luster

in late Frank Sinatra songs. Finally,

when I got off the sixth floor, I felt

like I was walking out into the sky

and aren’t we all pedestrians of air?

Doesn’t it feel all wrong to turn our backs

on the ocean? On an ant? On those Chagall

windows you have to go through a gauntlet

of ancient armor to get to? What was her name,

that night nurse so deft her blood draws

didn’t wake me up? Don’t get me wrong, I want

to wake up. I want my old dog to show me

all that wolf-light she hides inside

even though she thinks I won’t understand,

even though her vet and I conspire

to keep her alive forever.