I leave my door open, just a tiny crack so you won't have to knock, come enter, sit. I promise you silence, a splendid chair, sit down, be here. You won't get hurt by an old man naked, scratching his pretty bald head slowly writing a poem. When a boy I wanted to be a pilot and to save the world. Up here, you can say all your secrets and watch them disappear just as soon as you say them, the birds don't care.
Birds are the best poets.
I could never write a bird. The world writhes below us, with all its vain ambitions, it moans and spins, but let us but sit here, the poem it is done, in my room in the air, sip of calming tea and your steady hand, and in it, my own.