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After the war
they rebuilt me
in my own image.
Look!
I’ll step out of a cloud
for you —
— a crowd, I mean.
I’ll
I’ll dance our names
into the autumn rubble.
Tap, tap…
no big production.
Perfect I am not:
Frankenstein’s monster!
This real me’s a mockery.
I have lightning for blood —
Hee-hee! It tingles.
I’ll
I’ll blow myself a kiss
in your eyes.
(Did you know?
Mine are now light-adapted.)
Tell me
that you’ve always known
this thunder I stole,
known it was mine all along.
Perfect I am not
as I take flight
rustling
no doves, just pigeons.
But I’m as far as the earth
and striped stockings
could ever hope to fly me.