the art of lift

he is my crimson demograph. he writes
oh such chafing notes my wheatking. three
weeks of glorious catharsis in the cockpit of his triplane,
skipping over clouds and dwarf-gold like neptune in
a chariot of burlap and consonants.

the bones of my bodies are twice-struck matches,
brittle and pretty and that old-tin smell; he twists
twine around my eyes and pulls them up to the sky
he is that motor-oil smell-- rough hands and old rags
he is building and explicating the greatest machine.

some saturdays, he sings all day
spinnerets scarves and bomber jackets
adjusting the goggles on my head
admiring how they scruff up my hair.
i smile and call me his scarecrow lover.

he means to build a new machine;
we will call it the art of lift.