This is where I do my best
thinking:     seven feet 
off the ground    
on the roof of a dented 
dodge;    one story 
up from doorsteps on silver-
coated tar;   leaning out 
windows with wind blowing
 the smell of growth 
                        and damp 
                                    and something else I don't have a name for.

Sometimes I am 
happy, and I sit in the darkness and just
 breathe, because I am alive
            and that is good.   Sometimes I am 
not, and I cry
tears that shine
like the stars they reflect.
            Sometimes I search 
for the Milky Way. I never 
see it. Sometimes I am 
with someone else, and I say: 
                                  Pleiades. 
Cassiopeia.       Orion.                       Big dipper.       
                                Airplane. 
              Mars. 
Sometimes someone shows me more 
                                                            than those.

Sometimes I look down 
at the tops 
of bushes and neighbor's 
cats and I feel
tall 
    and wise.

One time it rained, but I could still see
stars. And I wondered:
    does the rain hit me
 sooner here?     Does it feel
                                     cleaner?

And I felt
that there, in the quiet
 space between jumping 
                                and flying, 
I was one 
            step closer to knowing.

____