In my Great Flying 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.