On a long holy strand of my finest spit I am fastening a hook to the heavens — a silver hook and a wish made of will. You, my love, are the bait — you and the boy and the family. If they will swallow that, then we just might catch an angel. We just might fly. Otherwise we will climb, fixed to one another by faith and suspicion — man, woman, and child high in the sun — that thin strand stretching beneath us, threatening to break. I am drawing in a golden globe of undying fish, flipping even now in my palm, holy and alive in my lips. Ah sweet love, on a thin green strand of phlegm I am drawing a hospital in — a holy hospital of brutalized angels. Angels who won’t do. Big church angels and some commercial angels too. I have caught a bottle of holy glue, the same holy glue that God uses, fastening himself to the religions. Fast holy glue that sets in a second and I am spreading it on the earth for you, hoping for just a touch of paradise, some little soulbit of me in you to settle down. We will touch, we two. We will embrace, and afterwards, because of it, no matter how thin, our bodies and our souls will always be joined by a little strand. So, babe, wind me in. Take me down off the rooftops. Pull me out of the deep rapids, the highest part of the sky where the cold wind goes by. Draw me in from streets, miles away, by magic. And never cut this strand. Never even try, for there is not one blade, not one twilight, not one sharp mouth deep enough for that. You will always be joined to me now, slender fisherwoman. Just you and Saturn on a string. You and the world hanging from a thread with your heart and your lust and your blood. So draw down heaven, love. Tug that silver string and drag this kite out of the whirlwind. Come, into this gamble, this boat pulled into the unknown — this journey in the wild current.