The wrench appeared in his dresser.
He stole the hammer from his uncle.
Nails, bolts, screws bought from gypsies
with miscellaneous coin earned
running errands for emigres.
He has no skis, just a small cart. Nothing
more than castors on a warped cupboard door
to launch him from the gate to the surely
more welcoming world below.
The boy knows he should shoot out into the sky.
Is the city blind to his momentum?
To his physics: f=ma? The future equals men airborne
who land silently in wintered forests.
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