The hero with a hat over his face,
half in shadow, sharky crawl
goes up, up, up the ladder.
Inside, the child of the flying ace.
Inside, the nutmeat of infinite complexity.
It flyers like a diagram, the map of before
and how it looks now, above
the room, hit pause.
Down, down, down the ladder.
Buttons and little worry-toys fall from the hero’s seams.
It is easy to escape
on legs that fade-dissolve on contact with the lawn
and then your torso, then what you carry in and around your arms.
Then a revving of motors, and the ground itself
fucks off, stage right.