The smoke coming from a metal pipe on top of an apartment building,
shaking in the wind.
This
thing took my attention from a biology lab report 
into this poem
and formed a 

goat.

For one moment,
a goat took off into the sky,
uncontrolled by the laws of physics.
Above the chaos and the noise,
over Lincoln and I,
the goat flew
untethered to anything at all.
The world's pressures were air to the goat,
a nothing to the momentary, tangible something. 

Without love, death, or dirt,
it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

My goat.