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.