There’s something like a cage
to protect the central pole from
who knows what, at this altitude.
There are plates and drums welded to it,
and wind you might
never come back from.

No one else said anything either
I thought the parking garage was too
quiet that night for sure. The powerlines chattered
less nervously than ever.

Sometimes it’s as if
you’re just a child
navigating a jungle gym, the ladders and rails
twist cleverly. The ground is reduced
to a shade of green.

Once we threw a bicycle wheel from the top
of that parking garage
as part of a game, somewhere between
red rover and catch— one team
sends the wheel hurtling, bouncing
at the other
with as much force as possible.
Where’s the tender
distortion there? the pacifistic abandon?
We could have put someone’s windshield out,
crushed a stroller,
or more.

The curvature of the earth is visible
beyond other towers, but
I’m hypnotized
by the toolbag swaying, dangling from
a rope below.
The huge carabiner

I remember how we ran to the edge
just to see the wheel
spiraling harmlessly in a ditch. You went
to say something,
but I was way

above you, suspended
in air; there was a blinking red bulb like
an idea never formulating, a near miss,
that was I there to change.