Heights

I’m with my dad, held above the window ledge, I smell wet dirt, blown by icy veins on nature’s flexed biceps, Around my neck, suffocated with freedom. I’m with my dad, held over the window ledge, He’s holding nature itself at gunpoint. I’m with my dad, held over the window ledge, Where am I? I can see myself falling from the window ledge, But there’s no smell. The sky is gone. I’m with my dad, held over the window ledge, He made fear go away. I love the storm, the glass-shatter, the wind-runner, the heaven-thunder. But now I fear the ground. My dad’s with me, held over the coffin ledge, What doesn’t kill you kills you slower.