Last night, I printed all my poems,
put them in a plastic bag
and crawled out my
bedroom window to the roof.
There I stood beneath the moon,
grabbed everything I could,
and flung 40 years of words to the sky.
Many white pages,
like plucked wings of a mythical bird,
flapped and fluttered to the ground,
the first complaint, I imagine,
of the man who comes
to mow the lawn.