Mescaline

think

of dirty

windows

and how hard

it is

to give

away

Press into

his hands

“this is for

luck,”

of beautiful

ecstatic lostness,

flight fatigue

“Luck” he repeats

hoarse

as a coin

back, his

early ones

Harlem is henna,

stiff grace,

the profile

glinting

your eye familiar

visions

of plummeting

through carefree trees

into golden

waiting arms

Twist

the coin

knowing it’s for good,

lay it into

the box

next

to the lapel button

you saved

red and black

letters,

give them both

away

but someone

always gives

them

back