In My Great Flying Dream

I can skim a whole sky

with on flick of a foot.

My loop de loops,

trace memory

above rush hours traffic,

while, wingless motion

willed only by desire.

Myrna, the middle-aged goddess,

waves from a street corner

with a used hanky,

waves off all gravity

as a serious mistake.

“Come back, mon amour,” she wails.

“Don’t get lost, out there, mon cheri.”


I want so much to please her

my backward ovals

spin me out of understanding,

out over the scrub oak of Oklahoma,

across and into the Gulf,

out into all those possibilities

I’ve been told

just might be a possibility.