we stood on a beach
and you asked me if I preferred your hair straight
and I wanted to tell you I liked the way
it got caught in the wind
and my fingers
but then we saw the place that lightning struck the sand
and the glass there
and all I could think was
last night I dreamt of twelve men
who did not know why they flew
until the moment that their teeth hummed
and the pilot threw them into a turn so tight
it tore light and time
I awoke to find him dead
which fitted
although the shards we trod on
no longer would
and then I thought of how these moments
turn away so quickly
that their shadows hang forever
and I wondered if
in trading places with
any of those twelve
I would see something
as memorable
as your hair
caught in that breeze