The answer to the puzzle 

is the mauled bird on the sidewalk, 

and the feathers.

The answer to the puzzle 

is that things keep getting less lovely, 

but more interesting. 

When the girl falls 

through the air 

from the top of a very tall building, 

she sees everything 

rush past her in great detail 

but with little promise.  

Onlookers see, 

“some girl cutting 

through the air 

like a knife cuts through water.”  

They gasp and say, “How terrible.  

That poor girl.  It’s just awful.”

And it really is, 

so either put that hand on this hip right now,  

or listen to what I’m saying. 

After all, it’s my poem. 

I made the poem, and everything in it 

belongs to me.

Try to forget the girl. 

She forgives you, and besides, 

she mostly did it for attention.

1.
Where there are no hills, 

there are no valleys,

but there are sometimes 

stairs and landings.

The girl doesn’t count 

those stairs, only pays

attention to them.  

Consequently, she’s fine.

2.
The hill that isn’t— gets made 

from no earth and no stone, 

is frequently covered 

by nothing green,  

and the valley is no amount of air.  

Can you imagine how much there is 

to miss?  Can you picture an absence 

greater than what might have gone?

3.
The girl won’t count each thing before her.  

This stair makes need for the next stair, 

and so on.  Stairs in their proper order 

are stairs.  Otherwise, other stairs.  

You have to assume something 

if you want to get somewhere, 

no matter how absent the world may be. 

The girl knows how to arrive.

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