A possible explanation for the writer's death plunge from his second floor window

I can see the crosshair in this window

it’s has it’s sights on me,  you see

the sun, has it in for those who hide

inside, tapping out their fantasies

like one of many monkeys

I’ll turn these keys into sails then

open windows to a breeze

and dodge the bullet, escape incarceration, 

dance daft into Spring air lent 

summer’s warmth by the accident 

of an island then suddenly free 

I’ll fall 

because I live on the second floor. 

Kick

I was looking at the inside of a shoe

when you came up and kicked me with bare feet

they were soft as crabs, 
and bony like bad meat.

It didn’t hurt and there was no insult taken

even if it was meant,

So I bent down to kiss your bleeding toe,

as you said; no.