In my great dream

I can skim a whole sky

with one flick of a foot.

My loop de loops

trace memory

above rush hour traffic,

white, 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 Texas and into the Gulf,

out into all those possibility.