Dead calling of my lonely heart

Dead calling of my
lonely heart;
to open this plane
organically / to melt through this
window myself only, keeping the seal
exact to my body till it closes
safely behind me
& I plummet down through these clouds
to whatever city that is which
lies below.

Then what? Just
another town and
with a twisted ankle to
slow me down.

Pointless, dead calling: to
limp slightly for a moment or two
until I heal and see just where
I've landed. Feeling guilty if
I scared anyone on the plane.

Guilty verdict on myself always,
even
when slapped by a raving nurse
while
pulling bodies from
my hometown's
rubble; even when kicked by a
ravishing mystic
in the sweltering burn of my adopted
metropolis. What will change here?

Suddenly free from even a limp, yet having fallen from the sky, I anticipate what follows.
The blue skinned wing-browed locals think me a deity or a trickster.
I deny
any divinity and admit to the
latter characterization.

- Then why the guilt? The wiry, azure
Madonna asks.
- That was a Hell of a trick;
I'll bet you've got more.

Love. At last. Real love. Free from judging, emblazoned with trust, not injurious in the slightest.
We wed in the floating town centre. A true intimacy with my bag of tricks and she's with child. We name the baby Jesus. For mischief. And, just the same, maybe.