I pick up fragments
on my desk,
like lost little wild things.
Like Michael,
restless,
never content,
a wild bird
in love with flying.
Looking for things
in the grass.
Pouring sand in his trucks,
the residue
from his tunnel to China.
Never content with what
he finds.
Exploring ceaselessly.
A wind
circling every stone,
every leaf,
leaving birds feet on
the bleached shore
of the paper.
The flashes of his smile
impossible to cage.
The hovering of his challenge
at the top of a slide.
Free,
as the freedom of a comet,
an impossible poem,
incandescence
exploding,
with the wildness
of a joy
inside him.